L 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 
From  the  Bequest 

of 
DOROTHY  K.  THOMAS 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

PARNASSUS  ON  WHEELS 

SHANDYGAFF 

SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE  (POEMS) 
THE  ROCKING  HORSE  (POEMS) 


THE  HAUNTED 
BOOKSHOP 

BY 
CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 


GARDEN  CITT  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  1919,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  A  COMPANY 

ALL  BIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OP 

TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES, 

INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


TO  THE  BOOKSELLERS 

BE  PLEASED  to  know,  most  worthy,  that  this 
little  book  is  dedicated  to  you  in  affection  and 
respect. 

The  faults  of  the  composition  are  plain  to  you  all. 
I  began  merely  in  the  hope  of  saying  something 
further  of  the  adventures  of  ROGER  MIFFLIN, 
whose  exploits  in  "Parnassus  on  Wheels"  some  of 
you  have  been  kind  enough  to  applaud.  But 
then  came  Miss  Titania  Chapman,  and  my  young 
advertising  man  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  the  two 
of  them  rather  ran. away  with  the  tale. 

I  think  I  should  explain  that  the  passage  in 
Chapter  VIII,  dealing  with  the  delightful  talent 
of  Mr.  Sidney  Drew,  was  written  before  the 
lamented  death  of  that  charming  artist.  But  as 
it  was  a  sincere  tribute,  sincerely  meant,  I  have 
seen  no  reason  for  removing  it. 

Chapters  I,  II,  III,  and  VI  appeared  originally 
in  The  Bookman,  and  to  the  editor  of  that  admir- 
able magazine  I  owe  thanks  for  his  permission  to 
reprint. 

Now  that  Roger  is  to  have  ten  Parnassuses  on 


vi  TO  THE  BOOKSELLERS 

the  road,  I  am  emboldened  to  think  that  some  of 
you  may  encounter  them  on  their  travels.  And  if 
you  do,  I  hope  you  will  find  that  these  new  errants 
of  the  Parnassus  on  Wheels  Corporation  are  living 
up  to  the  ancient  and  honourable  traditions  of  our 
noble  profession. 

CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY. 
Philadelphia, 
April  28,  1919. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    The  Haunted  Bookshop  ....  3 

II.     The  Corn  Cob  Club 29 

III.  Titania  Arrives 54 

IV.  The  Disappearing  Volume     ...  76 
V.    Aubrey  Walks  Part  Way  Home— 

And  Rides  the  Rest  of  the  Way  .  98 

VI.     Titania  Learns  the  Business  .      .      .  109 

VII.     Aubrey  Takes  Lodgings   ....  134 
VIII.     Aubrey   Goes  to  the  Movies,  and 

Wishes  He  Knew  More  German  .  153 

IX.    Again  the  Narrative  Is  Retarded     .  170 

X.    Roger  Raids  the  Ice-box  ....  185 

XL     Titania  Tries  Reading  in  Bed     .      .  196 

XII.    Aubrey  Determines  to  Give  Service 

That's  Different 215 

XIII.  The  Battle  of  Ludlow  Street.      .      .  230 

XIV.  The  Cromwell  Makes  Its  Last  Ap- 

pearance          248 

XV.    Mr.  Chapman  Waves  His  Wand      .  270 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 


The  Haunted  Bookshop 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

IF  YOU  are  ever  in  Brooklyn,  that  borough 
of  superb  sunsets  and  magnificent  vistas  of 
husband-propelled  baby-carriages,  it  is  to  be 
hoped  you  may  chance  upon  a  quiet  by-street 
where  there  is  a  very  remarkable  bookshop. 

This  bookshop,  which  does  business  under  the 
unusual  name  "Parnassus  at  Home,"  is  housed  in 
one  of  the  comfortable  old  brown-stone  dwellings 
which  have  been  the  joy  of  several  generations  of 
plumbers  and  cockroaches.  The  owner  of  the 
business  has  been  at  pains  to  remodel  the  house 
to  make  it  a  more  suitable  shrine  for  his  trade, 
which  deals  entirely  in  second-hand  volumes. 
There  is  no  second-hand  bookshop  in  the  world 
more  worthy  of  respect. 

It  was  about  six  o'clock  of  a  cold  November 
evening,  with  gusts  of  rain  splattering  upon  the 

3 


4  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

pavement,  when  a  young  man  proceeded  uncer- 
tainly along  Gissing  Street,  stopping  now  and  then 
to  look  at  shop  windows  as  though  doubtful  of  his 
way.  At  the  warm  and  shining  face  of  a  French 
rotisserie  he  halted  to  compare  the  number  enam- 
elled on  the  transom  with  a  memorandum  in  his 
hand.  Then  he  pushed  on  for  a  few  minutes,  at 
last  reaching  the  address  he  sought.  Over  the 
entrance  his  eye  was  caught  by  the  sign: 


PARNASSUS  AT  HOME 

R.  AND  H.  MIFFLIN 

BOOKLOVERS  WELCOME! 

3^*  THIS  SHOP  IS  HAUNTED  ^vl 


He  stumbled  down  the  three  steps  that  led  into 
the  dwelling  of  the  muses,  lowered  his  overcoat 
collar,  and  looked  about. 

It  was  very  different  from  such  bookstores  as  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  patronize.  Two  stories 
of  the  old  house  had  been  thrown  into  one:  the 
lower  space  was  divided  into  little  alcoves;  above, 
a  gallery  ran  round  the  wall,  which  carried  books 
to  the  ceiling.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  de- 
lightful fragrance  of  mellowed  paper  and  leather 
surcharged  with  a  strong  bouquet  of  tobacco.  In 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP  5 

front   of   him   he   found   a   large   placard   in   a 
frame: 


THIS  SHOP  IS  HAUNTED  by  the  ghosta 
Of  all  great  literature,  in  hosts; 

We  sell  no  fakes  or  trashes. 
Lovers  of  books  are  welcome  here, 
No  clerks  will  babble  in  your  ear, 

Please  smoke — but  don't  drop  ashes! 


Browse  as  long  as  you  like. 

Prices  of  all  books  plainly  marked. 

If  you  want  to  ask  questions,  you'll  find  the  proprietor 

where  the  tobacco  smoke  is  thickest. 
We  pay  cash  for  books. 
We  have  what  you  want,  though  you  may  not  know  you 

want  it. 
tt^3  Malnutrition  of  the  reading  faculty  is  a  serious  thing. 

Let  us  prescribe  for  you. 
By  R.  &  H.  MIFFLIN, 

Proprs. 


The  shop  had  a  warm  and  comfortable  obscurity, 
a  kind  of  drowsy  dusk,  stabbed  here  and  there  by 
bright  cones  of  yellow  light  from  green-shaded 
electrics.  There  was  an  all-pervasive  drift  of 
tobacco  smoke,  which  eddied  and  fumed  under  the 
glass  lamp  shades.  Passing  down  a  narrow  aisle 
between  the  alcoves  the  visitor  noticed  that  some 
of  the  compartments  were  wholly  in  darkness; 


6  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

in  others  where  lamps  were  glowing  he  could  see  a 
table  and  chairs.  In  one  corner,  under  a  sign 
lettered  ESSAYS,  an  elderly  gentleman  was  read- 
ing, with  a  face  of  fanatical  ecstasy  illumined  by 
the  sharp  glare  of  electricity;  but  there  was  no 
wreath  of  smoke  about  him  so  the  newcomer 
concluded  he  was  not  the  proprietor. 

As  the  young  man  approached  the  back  of  the 
shop  the  general  effect  became  more  and  more  fan- 
tastic. On  some  skylight  far  overhead  he  could 
hear  the  rain  drumming;  but  otherwise  the  place 
was  completely  silent,  peopled  only  (so  it  seemed) 
by  the  gurgitating  whorls  of  smoke  and  the  bright 
profile  of  the  essay  reader.  It  seemed  like  a  secret 
fane,  some  shrine  of  curious  rites,  and  the  young 
man's  throat  was  tightened  by  a  stricture  which  was 
half  agitation  and  half  tobacco.  Towering  above 
him  into  the  gloom  were  shelves  and  shelves  of 
books,  darkling  toward  the  roof.  He  saw  a  table 
with  a  cylinder  of  brown  paper  and  twine,  evi- 
dently where  purchases  might  be  wrapped;  but 
there  was  no  sign  of  an  attendant. 

"This  place  may  indeed  be  haunted,"  he 
thought,  "perhaps  by  the  delighted  soul  of  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh,  patron  of  the  weed,  but  seemingly 
not  by  the  proprietors." 

His  eyes,  searching  the  blue  and  vaporous  vistas 
of  the  shop,  were  caught  by  a  circle  of  brightness 


THE  HA  TINTED^  BOOKSHOP  7 

that  shone  with  a  curious  egg-like  lustre.  It  was 
round  and  white,  gleaming  in  the  sheen  of  a  hang- 
ing light,  a  bright  island  in  a  surf  of  tobacco  smoke. 
He  came  more  close,  and  found  it  was  a  bald  head. 

This  head  (he  then  saw)  surmounted  a  small, 
sharp-eyed  man  who  sat  tilted  back  in  a  swivel 
chair,  in  a  corner  which  seemed  the  nerve  centre 
of  the  establishment.  The  large  pigeon-holed  desk 
in  front  of  him  was  piled  high  with  volumes  of  all 
sorts,  with  tins  of  tobacco  and  newspaper  clippings 
and  letters.  An  antiquated  typewriter,  looking 
something  like  a  harpsichord,  was  half-buried  in 
sheets  of  manuscript.  The  little  bald-headed  man 
was  smoking  a  corn-cob  pipe  and  reading  a  cook- 
book. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  caller,  pleasantly; 
"is  this  the  proprietor?" 

Mr.  Roger  Mifflin,  the  proprietor  of  "Parnassus 
at  Home,"  looked  up,  and  the  visitor  saw  that  he 
had  keen  blue  eyesi,  a  short  red  beard,  and  a  con- 
vincing air  of  competent  originality. 

"It  is,"  said  Mr.  Mifflin.  "Anything  I  can  do 
fotyou?" 

"My  name  is  Aubrey  Gilbert,"  said  the  young 
man.  "  I  am  representing  the  Grey-Matter  Adver- 
tising Agency.  I  want  tp  discuss  with  you  the 
advisability  of  your  letting  us  handle  your  adver- 
tising account,  prepare  snappy  copy  for  you,  and 


8  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

place  it  in  large  circulation  mediums.  Now  the 
war's  over,  you  ought  to  prepare  some  constructive 
campaign  for  bigger  business." 

The  bookseller's  face  beamed.  He  put  down  his 
cookbook,  blew  an  expanding  gust  of  smoke,  and 
looked  up  brightly. 

"My  dear  chap,"  he  said,  "I  don't  dp  any  adver- 
tising." 

"Impossible!"  cried  the  other,  aghast  as  at  some 
gratuitous  indecency. 

"Not  in  the  sense  you  mean.  Such  advertising 
as  benefits  me  most  is  done  for  me  by  the  snappiest 
copywriters  in  the  business." 

"I  suppose  you  refer  to  Whitewash  and  Gilt?" 
said  Mr.  Gilbert  wistfully. 

"Not  at  all.  The  people  who  are  doing  my  ad- 
vertising are  Stevenson,  Browning,  Conrad  and 
Company." 

"Dear  me,"  said  the  Grey-Matter  solicitor.  "I 
don't  know  that  agency  at  all.  Still,  I  doubt  if 
their  copy  has  more  pep  than  ours." 

"I  don't  think  you  get  me.  I  mean  that  my 
advertising  is  done  by  the  books  I  sell.  If  I  sell  a 
man  a  book  by  Stevenson  or  Conrad,  a  book  that 
delights  or  terrifies  him,  that  man  and  that  book 
become  my  living  advertisements." 

"But  that  word-of -mouth  advertising  is  ex- 
ploded," said  Gilbert.  "You  can't  get  Distribu- 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP  9 

tion  that  way.  You've  got  to  keep  your  trade- 
mark before  the  public." 

"By  the  bones  of  Tauchnitz!"  cried  Mifflin. 
"Look  here,  you  wouldn't  go  to  a  doctor,  a  medical 
specialist,  and  tell  him  he  ought  to  advertise  in 
papers  and  magazines?  A  doctor  is  advertised 
by  the  bodies  he  cures.  My  business  is  adver- 
tised by  the  minds  I  stimulate.  And  let  me  tell 
you  that  the  book  business  is  different  from  other 
trades.  People  don't  know  they  want  books.  I 
can  see  just  by  looking  at  you  that  your  mind  is  ill 
for  lack  of  books  but  you  are  blissfully  unaware  of 
it!  People  don't  go  to  a  bookseller  until  some 
serious  mental  accident  or  disease  makes  them 
aware  of  their  danger.  Then  they  come  here. 
For  me  to  advertise  would  be  about  as  useful  as 
telling  people  who  feel  perfectly  well  that  they 
ought  -to  go  to  the  doctor.  Do  you  know  why 
people  are  reading  more  books  now  than  ever 
before?  Because  the  terrific  catastrophe  of  the 
war  has  made  them  realize  that  their  minds  are 
ill.  The  world  was  suffering  from  all  sorts  of 
mental  fevers  and  aches  and  disorders,  and  never 
knew  it.  Now  our  mental  pangs  are  only  too 
manifest.  We  are  all  reading,  hungrily,  hastily, 
trying  to  find  out — after  the  trouble  is  over — what 
was  the  matter  with  our  minds." 

The  little  bookseller  was  standing  up  now,  and 


10          THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

his  visitor  watched  him  with  mingled  amusement 
and  alarm. 

"You  know,"  said  Mifflih,  "I  am  interested  that 
you  should  have  thought  it  worth  while  to  come 
in  here.  It  reinforces  my  conviction  of  the  amaz- 
ing future  ahead  of  the  book  business.  But  I  tell 
you  that  future  lies  not  merely  in  systematizing 
it  as  a  trade.  It  lies  in  dignifying  it  as  a  profes- 
sion. It  is  small  use  to  jeer  at  the  public  for  craving 
shoddy  books,  quack  books,  untrue  books.  Physi- 
cian, cure  thyself!  Let  the  bookseller  learn  to 
know  and  revere  good  books,  he  will  teach  the 
customer.  The  hunger  for  good  books  is  more 
general  and  more  insistent  than  you  would  dream. 
But  it  is  still  in  a  way  subconscious.  People 
need  books,  but  they  don't  know  they  need  them. 
Generally  they  are  not  aware  that  the  books  they 
need  are  in  existence." 

"Why  wouldn't  advertising  be  the  way  to  let 
them  know?"  asked  the  young  man,  rather  acutely. 

"My  dear  chap,  I  understand  the  value  of  adver- 
tising. But  in  my  own  case  it  would  be  futile. 
I  am  not  a  dealer  in  merchandise  but  a  specialist  in 
adjusting  the  book  to  the  human  need.  Between 
ourselves,  there  is  no  such  thing,  abstractly,  as  a 
'good '  book.  A  book  is  'good '  only  when  it  meets 
some  human  hunger  or  refutes  some  human  error. 
A  book  that  is  good  for  me  would  very  likely  be 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          11 

punk  for  you.  My  pleasure  is  to  prescribe  books 
for  such  patients  as  drop  in  here  and  are  willing  to 
tell  me  their  symptoms.  Some  people  have  let 
their  reading  faculties  decay  so  that  all  I  can  do  is 
hold  a  post  mortem  on  them.  But  most  are  still 
open  to  treatment.  There  is  no  one  so  grateful  as 
the  tnan  to  whom  you  have  given  just  the  book 
his  soul  needed  and  he  never  knew  it.  No  adver- 
tisement on  earth  is  as  potent  as  a  grateful  cus- 
tomer. 

"I  will  tell  you  another  reason  why  I  don't 
advertise,"  he  continued.  "In  these  days  when 
everyone  keeps  his  trademark  before  the  public, 
as  you  call  it,  not  to  advertise  is  the  most  original 
and  startling  thing  one  can  do  to  attract  attention. 
It  was  the  fact  that  I  do  not  advertise  that  drew 
you  here.  And  everyone  who  comes  here  thinks 
he  has  discovered  the  place  himself.  He  goes  and 
tells  his  friends  about  the  book  asylum  run  by  a 
crank  and  a  lunatic,  and  they  come  here  in  turn 
to  see  what  it  is  like." 

"I  should  like  to  come  here  again  myself  and 
browse  about,"  said  the  advertising  agent.  "I 
should  like  to  have  you  prescribe  for  me." 

"The  first  thing  needed  is  to  acquire  a  sense  of 
pity.  The  world  has  been  printing  books  for  450 
years,  and  yet  gunpowder  has  a  still  wider  circula- 
tion. Never  mind!  Printer's  ink  is  the  greater 


12          THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

explosive:  it  will  win.  Yes,  I  have  a  few  of  the 
good  books  here.  There  are  only  about  30,000 
really  important  books  in  the  world.  I  suppose 
about  5,000  of  them  were  written  in  the  English 
language,  and  5,000  more  have  been  translated." 

"You  are  open  in  the  evenings?" 

"Until  ten  o'clock.  A  great  many  of  my  best 
customers  are  those  who  are  at  work  all  day  and 
can  only  visit  bookshops  at  night.  The  real  book- 
lovers,  you  know,  are  generally  among  the  humbler 
classes.  A  man  who  is  impassioned  with  books 
has  little  time  or  patience  to  grow  rich  by  concoct- 
ing schemes  for  cozening  his  fellows." 

The  little  bookseller's  bald  pate  shone  in  the  light 
of  the  bulb  hanging  over  the  wrapping  table.  His 
eyes  were  bright  and  earnest,  his  short  red  beard 
bristled  like  wire.  He  wore  a  ragged  brown  Nor- 
folk jacket  from  which  two  buttons  were  missing. 

A  bit  of  a  fanatic  himself,  thought  the  customer, 
but  a  very  entertaining  one.  "Well,  sir,"  he  said, 
"I  am  ever  so  grateful  to  you.  I'll  come  again. 
Good-night."  And  he  started  down  the  aisle  for 
the  door. 

As  he  neared  the  front  of  the  shop,  Mr.  Mifflin 
switched  on  a  cluster  of  lights  that  hung  high  up, 
and  the  young  man  found  himself  beside  a  large 
bulletin  board  covered  with  clippings,  announce- 
ments, circulars,  and  little  notices  written  on  cards 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          13 

in  a  small  neat  script.     The  following  caught  his 
eye: 


If  your  mind  needs  phosphorus,  try  "Trivia,"  by  Logan 
Pearsall  Smith. 

If  your  mind  needs  a  whiff  of  strong  air,  blue  and 
cleansing,  from  hilltops  and  primrose  valleys,  try  "The 
Story  of  My  Heart,"  by  Richard  Jefferies. 

If  your  mind  needs  a  tonic  of  iron  and  wine,  and 
a  thorough  rough-and-tumbling,  try  Samuel  Butler's 
"Notebooks"  or  "The  Man  Who  Was  Thursday,"  by 
Chesterton. 

If  you  need  "all  manner  of  Irish,"  and  a  relapse  into 
irresponsible  freakishness,  try  "The  Demi-Gods,"  by 
James  Stephens.  It  is  a  better  book  than  one  deserves 
or  expects. 

It's  a  good  thing  to  turn  your  mind  upside  down  now 
and  then,  like*  an  hour-glass,  to  let  the  particles  run  the 
other  way. 

One  who  loves  the  English  tongue  can  have  a  lot  of  fun 
with  a  Latin  dictionary. 

ROGER  MIFFLIN. 


Human  beings  pay  very  little  attention  to  what 
is  told  them  unless  they  know  something  about  it 
already.  The  young  man  had  heard  of  none  of 
these  books  prescribed  by  the  practitioner  of 
bibliotherapy.  He  was  about  to  open  the  door 
when  Mifflin  appeared  at  his  side. 


14          THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  with  a  quaint  touch  of 
embarrassment.  "I  was  very  much  interested  by 
our  talk.  I'm  all  alone  this  evening — my  wife  is 
away  on  a  holiday.  Won't  you  stay  and  have  sup- 
per with  me?  I  was  just  looking  up  some  new 
recipes  when  you  came  in." 

The  other  was  equally  surprised  and  pleased  by 
this  unusual  invitation. 

"Why — that's  very  good  of  you,"  he  said. 
"Are you  sure  I  won't  be  intruding?" 

"Not  at  all!"  cried  the  bookseller.  "I  detest 
eating  alone:  I  was  hoping  someone  would  drop 
in.  I  always  try  to  have  a  guest  for  supper  when 
my  wife  is  away.  I  have  to  stay  at  home,  you  see, 
to  keep  an  eye  on  the  shop.  We  have  no  servant, 
and  I  do  the  cooking  myself.  It's  great  fun.  Now 
you  light  your  pipe  and  make  yourself  comfortable 
for  a  few  minutes  while  I  get  things  ready.  Sup- 
pose you  come  back  to  my  den." 

On  a  table  of  books  at  the  front  of  the  shop 
Mifflin  laid  a  large  card  lettered: 


PROPRIETOR  AT  SUPPER 

IF  YOU  WANT  ANYTHING 

RING  THIS  BELL 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          15 

Beside  the  card  he  placed  a  large  old-fashioned 
dinner  bell,  and  then  led  the  way  to  the  rear  of  the 
shop. 

Behind  the  little  office  in  which  this  unusual 
merchant  had  been  studying  his  cookbook  a  nar- 
row stairway  rose  on  each  side,  running  up  to  the 
gallery.  Behind  these  stairs  a  short  flight  of  steps 
led  to  the  domesti  ^ecesses.  The  visitor  found 
himself  ushered  inti  a  small  room  on  the  left, 
where  a  grate  of  coa;  lowed'under  a  dingy  mantel- 
piece of  yellowish  .narble.  On  the  mantel  stood 
a  row  of  blackened  corn-cob  pipes  and  a  canister  of 
tobacco.  Above  was  a  startling  canvas  in  em- 
phatic oils,  representing  a  large  blue  wagon  drawn 
by  a  stout  white  animal — evidently  a  horses.  A 
background  of  lush  scenery  enhanced  the  force- 
ful technique  of  the  limner.  The  walls  were 
stuffed  with  books.  Two  shabby,  comfortable 
chairs  were  drawn  up  to  the  iron  fender,  and 
a  mustard-coloured  terrier  was  lying  so  close 
to  the  glow  that  a  smell  of  singed  hair  was  sen- 
sible. 

"There,"  said  the  host;  "this  is  my  cabinet, 
my  chapel  of  ease.  Take  off  your  coat  and  sit 
down." 

"Really,"    began    Gilbert,   "I'm    afraid    this 

• j> 

"Nonsense!    Now  you  sit  down  and  commend 


16          THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

your  soul  to  Providence  and  the  kitchen  stove. 
I'll  bustle  round  and  get  supper." 

Gilbert  pulled  out  his  pipe,  and  with  a  sense  of 
elation  prepared  to  enjoy  an  unusual  evening. 
He  was  a  young  man  of  agreeable  parts,  amiable 
and  sensitive.  He  knew  his  disadvantages  in 
literary  conversation,  for  he  had  gone  to  an  excel- 
lent college  where  glee  clubs  and  theatricals  had 
left  him  little  time  for  reading.  But  still  he  was  a 
lover  of  good  books,  though  he  knew  them  chiefly 
by  hearsay.  He  was  twenty-five  years  old,  em- 
ployed as  a  copywriter  by  the  Grey-Matter  Ad- 
vertising Agency. 

The  little  room  in  which  he  found  himself  was 
plainly  the  bookseller's  sanctum,  and  contained  his 
own  private  library.  Gilbert  browsed  along  the 
shelves  curiously.  The  volumes  were  mostly 
shabby  and  bruised;  they  had  evidently  been 
picked  up  one  by  one  in  the  humble  mangers  of  the 
second-hand  vendor.  They  all  showed  marks  of 
use  and  meditation. 

Mr.  Gilbert  had  the  earnest  mania  for  self- 
improvement  which  has  blighted  the  lives  of  so 
many  young  men — a  passion  which,  however,  is 
commendable  iii  those  who  feel  themselves  handi- 
capped by  a  college  career  and  a  jewelled  fraternity 
emblem.  It  suddenly  struck  him  that  it  would  be 
valuable  to  make  a  list  of  some  of  the  titles  in 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          17 

Mofflin's  collection,  as  a  suggestion  for  his  own  read- 
ing. He  took  out  a  memorandum  book  and  began 
jotting  down  the  books  that  intrigued  him: 

The  Works  of  Francis  Thompson  (3  vols.) 

Social  History  of  Smoking:    Apperson. 

The  Path  to  Rome:    Hilaire  Belloc 

The  Book  of  Tea:    Kakuzo 

Happy  Thoughts:    F.  C.  Burnand 

Dr.  Johnson's  Prayers  and  Meditations 

Margaret  Ogilvy:    J.  M.  Barrie 

Confessions  of  a  Thug:    Taylor 

General  Catalogue  of  the  Oxford  University  Press 

The  Morning's  War:    C.  E.  Montague 

The  Spirit  of  Man:    edited  by  Robert  Bridges 

The  Romany  Rye:    Borrow 

Poems:    Emily  Dickinson 

Poems:    George  Herbert 

The  House  of  Cobwebs:    George  Gissing 

So  far  had  he  got,  and  was  beginning  to  say  to 
himself  that  in  the  interests  of  Advertising  (who 
is  a  jealous  mistress)  he  had  best  call  a  halt,  when 
his  host  entered  the  room,  his  small  face  eager,  his 
eyes  blue  points  of  light. 

"Come,  Mr.  Aubrey  Gilbert!"  he  cried.  "The 
meal  is  set.  You  want  to  wash  your  hands?  Make 
haste  then,  this  way:  the  eggs  are  hot  and  waiting." 

The  dining  room  into  which  the  guest  was  con- 
ducted betrayed  a  feminine  touch  not  visible  in 
the  smoke-dimmed  quarters  of  shop  and  cabinet. 


18          TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

At  the  windows  were  curtains  of  laughing  chintz 
and  pots  of  pink  geranium.  The  table,  under  a 
drop-light  in  a  flame-coloured  silk  screen,  was 
brightly  set  with  silver  and  blue  china.  In  a 
cut-glass  decanter  sparkled  a  ruddy  brown  wine. 
The  edged  tool  of  Advertising  felt  his  spirits  under- 
go an  unmistakable  upward  pressure. 

"Sit  down,  sir,"  said  Mifflin,  lifting  the  roof  of  a 
platter.  "These  are  eggs  Samuel  Butler,  an  in- 
vention of  my  own,  the  apotheosis  of  hen  fruit." 

Gilbert  greeted  the  invention  with  applause. 
An  Egg  Samuel  Sutler,  for  the  notebook  of  house- 
wives, may  be  summarized  as  a  pyramid,  based 
upon  toast,  whereof  the  chief  masonries  are  a  flake 
of  bacon,  an  egg  poached  to  firmness,  a  wreath  of 
mushrooms,  a  cap-sheaf  of  red  peppers;  the  whole 
dribbled  with  a  warm  pink  sauce  of  which  the 
inventor  retains  the  secret.  To  this  the  book- 
seller chef  added  fried  potatoes  from  another  dish, 
and  poured  for  his  guest  a  glass  of  wine. 

"This  is  California  catawba,"  said  Mifflin,  "in 
which  the  grape  and  the  sunshine  very  pleasantly 
(and  cheaply)  fulfil  their  allotted  destiny.  I  pledge 
you  prosperity  to  the  black  art  of  Advertising!" 

The  psychology  of  the  art  and  mystery  of  Ad- 
vertising rests  upon  tact,  an  instinctive  perception 
of  the  tone  and  accent  which  will  be  en  rapport 
with  the  mood  of  the  hearer.  Mr.  Gilbert  was 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          19 

aware  of  this,  and  felt  that  quite  possibly  his  host 
was  prouder  of  his  whimsical  avocation  as  gour- 
met than  of  his  sacred  profession  as  bookman. 

"Is  it  possible,  sir,"  he  began,  in  lucid  John- 
sonian, "that  you  can  concoct  so  delicious  an 
entree  in  so  few  minutes?  You  are  not  hoaxing 
me?  There  is  no  secret  passage  between  Gissing 
Street  and  the  laboratories  of  the  Ritz?" 

"Ah,  you  should  taste  Mrs.  Mifflin's  cooking!" 
said  the  bookseller.  "I  am  only  an  amateur,  who 
dabbles  in  the  craft  during  her  absence.  She  is 
on  a  visit  to  her  cousin  in  Boston.  She  becomes, 
quite  justifiably,  weary  of  the  tobacco  of  this  es- 
tablishment, and  once  or  twice  a  year  it  does  her 
good  to  breathe  the  pure  serene  of  Beacon  Hill. 
During  her  absence  it  is  my  privilege  to  inquire 
into  the  ritual  of  housekeeping.  I  find  it  very 
sedative  after  the  incessant  excitement  and  specu- 
lation of  the  shop." 

"I  should  have  thought,"  said  Gilbert,  "that 
life  in  a  bookshop  would  be  delightfully  tranquil." 

"Far  from  it.  Living  in  a  bookshop  is  like 
living  in  a  warehouse  of  explosives.  Those  shelves 
are  ranked  with  the  most  furious  combustibles  in 
the  world — the  brains  of  men.  I  can  spend  a  rainy 
afternoon  reading,  and  my  mind  works  itself  up 
to  such  a  passion  and  anxiety  over  mortal  prob- 
lems as  almost  unmans  me.  It  is  terribly  nerve- 


20          THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

racking.  Surround  a  man  with  Carlyle,  Emerson, 
Thoreau,  Chesterton,  Shaw,  Nietzsche,  and  George 
Ade — would  you  wonder  at  his  getting  excited? 
What  would  happen  to  a  cat  if  she  had  to  live  in  a 
room  tapestried  with  catnip  ?  She  would  go  crazy ! ' ' 

"Truly,  I  had  never  thought  of  that  phase  of 
bookselling,"  said  the  young  man.  "How  is  it, 
though,  that  libraries  are  shrines  of  such  austere 
calm?  If  books  are  as  provocative  as  you  sug- 
gest, one  would  expect  every  librarian  to  utter  the 
shrill  screams  of  a  hierophant,  to  clash  ecstatic 
castanets  in  his  silent  alcoves!" 

"Ah,  my  boy,  you  forget  the  card  index! 
Librarians  invented  that  soothing  device  for  the 
febrifuge  of  their  souls,  just  as  I  fall  back  upon  the 
rites  of  the  kitchen.  Librarians  would  all  go  mad, 
those  capable  of  concentrated  thought,  if  they  did 
not  have  the  cool  and  healing  card  index  as  medi- 
cament !  Some  more  of  the  eggs  ?  " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Gilbert.  "Who  was  the 
butler  whose  name  was  associated  with  the  dish?" 

"What?"  cried  Mifflin,  in  agitation,  "you 
have  not  heard  of  Samuel  Butler,  the  author  of 
The  Way  of  All  Flesh?  My  dear  young  man, 
whoever  permits  himself  to  die  before  he  has  read 
that  book,  and  also  Erewhon,  has  deliberately 
forfeited  his  chances  of  paradise.  For  paradise  in 
the  world  to  come  is  uncertain,  but  there  is  indeed 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         21 

a  heaven  on  this  earth,  a  heaven  which  we  inhabit 
when  we  read  a  good  book.  Pour  yourself  an- 
other glass  of  wine,  and  permit  me " 

(Here  followed  an  enthusiastic  development  of 
the  perverse  philosophy  of  Samuel  Butler,  which, 
in  deference  to  my  readers,  I  omit.  Mr.  Gilbert 
took  notes  of  the  conversation  in  his  pocketbook, 
and  I  am  pleased  to  say  that  his  heart  was  moved 
to  a  realization  of  his  iniquity,  for  he  was  observed 
at  the  Public  Library  a  few  days  later  asking  for  a 
copy  of  The  Way  of  All  Flesh.  After  inquiring 
at  four  libraries,  and  finding  all  copies  of  the  book 
in  circulation,  he  was  compelled  to  buy  one.  He 
never  regretted  doing  so.) 

"But  I  am  forgetting  my  duties  as  host,"  said 
Mifflin.  "Our  dessert  consists  of  apple  sauce, 
gingerbread,  and  coffee."  He  rapidly  cleared  the 
empty  dishes  from  the  table  and  brought  on  the 
second  course. 

"I  have  been  noticing  the  warning  over  the 
sideboard,"  said  Gilbert.  "I  hope  you  will  let 
me  help  you  this  evening?"  He  pointed  to  a  card 
hanging  near  the  kitchen  door.  It  read: 


ALWAYS  WASH  DISHES 

IMMEDIATELY  AFTER  MEALS 

IT  SAVES  TROUBLE 


22  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  always  obey  that  precept," 
said  the  bookseller  as  he  poured  the  coffee.  "  Mrs. 
Mifflin  hangs  it  there  whenever  she  goes  away,  to 
remind  me.  But,  as  our  friend  Samuel  Butler  says, 
he  that  is  stupid  in  little  will  also  be  stupid  in 
much.  I  have  a  different  theory  about  dish- 
washing, and  I  please  myself  by  indulging  it. 

"I  used  to  regard  dish- washing  merely  as  an 
ignoble  chore,  a  kind  of  hateful  discipline  which  had 
to  be  undergone  with  knitted  brow  and  brazen 
fortitude.  When  my  wife  went  away  the  first 
time,  I  erected  a  reading  stand  and  an  electric 
light  over  the  sink,  and  used  to  read  while  my 
hands  went  automatically  through  base  gestures  of 
purification.  I  made  the  great  spirits  of  literature 
partners  of  my  sorrow,  and  learned  by  heart  a  good 
deal  of  Paradise  Lost  and  of  Walt  Mason,  while 
I  soused  and  wallowed  among  pots  and  pans.  I 
used  to  comfort  myself  with  two  lines  of  Keats: 

'The  moving  waters  at  their  priest-like  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores ' 

Then  a  new  conception  of  the  matter  struck  me. 
It  is  intolerable  for  a  human  being  to  go  on  doing 
any  task  as  a  penance,  under  duress.  No  matter 
what  the  work  is,  one  must  spiritualize  it  in  some 
way,  shatter  the  old  idea  of  it  into  bits  and  rebuild 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         23 

it  nearer  to  the  heart's  desire.  How  was  I  to  do 
this  with  dish- washing? 

"I  broke  a  good  many  plates  while  I  was  pon- 
dering over  the  matter.  Then  it  occurred  to  me 
that  here  was  just  the  relaxation  I  needed.  I  had 
been  worrying  over  the  mental  strain  of  being  sur- 
rounded all  day  long  by  vociferous  books,  crying 
out  at  me  their  conflicting  views  as  to  the  glories 
and  agonies  of  life.  Why  not  make  dish-washing 
my  balm  and  poultice? 

"When  one  views  a  stubborn  fact  from  a  new 
angle,  it  is  amazing  how  all  its  contours  and  edges 
change  shape!  Immediately  my  dishpan  began 
to  glow  with  a  kind  of  philosophic  halo!  The 
warm,  soapy  water  became  a  sovereign  medicine 
to  retract  hot  blood  from  the  head;  the  homely  act 
of  washing  and  drying  cups  and  saucers  became  a 
symbol  of  the  order  and  cleanliness  that  man  im- 
poses on  the  unruly  world  about  him.  I  tore  down 
my  book  rack  and  reading  lamp  from  over  the  sink. 

"Mr.  Gilbert,"  he  went  on,  "do  not  laugh  at  me 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  evolved  a  whole  kitchen 
philosophy  of  my  own.  I  find  the  kitchen  the 
shrine  of  our  civilization,  the  focus  of  all  that  is 
comely  in  life.  The  ruddy  shine  of  the  stove  is  as 
beautiful  as  any  sunset.  A  well-polished  jug  or 
spoon  is  as  fair,  as  complete  and  beautiful,  as  any 
sonnet.  The  dish  mop,  properly  rinsed  and  wrung 


24  THE  HA  UN  TED  BOOKSHOP 

and  hung  outside  the  back  door  to  dry,  is  a  whole 
sermon  in  itself.  The  stars  never  look  so  bright 
as  they  do  from  the  kitchen  door  after  the  ice-box 
pan  is  emptied  and  the  whole  place  is  'redd  up/ 
as  the  Scotch  say." 

"A  very  delightful  philosophy  indeed,"  said 
Gilbert.  "And  now  that  we  have  finished  our 
meal,  I  insist  upon  your  letting  me  give  you  a  hand 
with  the  washing  up.  I  am  eager  to  test  this  dish- 
pantheism  of  yours!" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Mifflin,  laying  a  re- 
straining hand  on  his  impetuous  guest,  "it  is  a 
poor  philosophy  that  will  not  abide  denial  now  and 
then.  No,  no — I  did  not  ask  you  to  spend  the 
evening  with  me  to  wash  dishes."  And  he  led 
the  way  back  to  his  sitting  room. 

"When  I  saw  you  come  in,"  said  Mifflin,  "I  was 
afraid  you  might  be  a  newspaper  man,  looking  for 
an  interview.  A  young  journalist  came  to  see  us 
once,  with  very  unhappy  results.  He  wheedled 
himself  into  Mrs.  Mifflin 's  good  graces,  and  ended 
by  putting  us  both  into  a  book,  called  Parnassus 
on  Wheels,  which  has  been  rather  a  trial  to  me. 
In  that  book  he  attributes  to  me  a  number  of 
shallow  and  sugary  observations  upon  bookselling 
that  have  been  an  annoyance  to  the  trade.  I  am 
happy  to  say,  though,  that  his  book  had  only  a 
trifling  sale." 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         25 

"I  have  never  heard  of  it,"  said  Gilbert. 

"If  you  are  really  interested  in  bookselling  you 
should  come  here  some  evening  to  a  meeting  of  the 
Corn  Cob  Club.  Once  a  month  a  number  of 
booksellers  gather  here  and  we  discuss  matters  of 
bookish  concern  over  corn-cobs  and  cider.  We 
have  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  booksellers:  one  is  a 
fanatic  on  the  subject  of  libraries.  He  thinks  that 
every  public  library  should  be  dynamited.  An- 
other thinks  that  moving  pictures  will  destroy  the 
book  trade.  What  rot!  Surely  everything  that 
arouses  people's  minds,  that  makes  them  alert  and 
questioning,  increases  their  appetite  for  books." 

"The  life  of  a  bookseller  is  very  demoralizing 
to  the  intellect,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause.  "He 
is  surrounded  by  innumerable  books;  he  cannot 
possibly  read  them  all;  he  dips  into  one  and  picks 
up  a  scrap  from  another.  His  mind  gradually  fills 
itself  with  miscellaneous  flotsam,  with  superficial 
opinions,  with  a  thousand  half -knowledges.  Al- 
most unconsciously  he  begins  to  rate  literature 
according  to  what  people  ask  for.  He  begins  to 
wonder  whether  Ralph  Waldo  Trine  isn't  really 
greater  than  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  whether  J.  M. 
Chappie  isn't  as  big  a  man  as  J.  M.  Barrie.  That 
way  lies  intellectual  suicide. 

"One  thing,  however,  you  must  grant  the  good 
bookseller.  He  is  tolerant.  He  is  patient  of  all 


26          THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

ideas  and  theories.  Surrounded,  engulfed  by  the 
torrent  of  men's  words,  he  is  willing  to  listen  to 
them  all.  Even  to  the  publisher's  salesman  he 
turns  an  indulgent  ear.  He  is  willing  to  be  hum- 
bugged for  the  weal  of  humanity.  He  hopes  un- 
ceasingly for  good  books  to  be  born. 

"My  business,  you  see,  is  different  from  most. 
I  only  deal  in  second-hand  books;  I  only  buy  books 
that  I  consider  have  some  honest  reason  for  exist- 
ence. In  so  far  as  human  judgment  can  discern, 
I  try  to  keep  trash  out  of  my  shelves.  A  doctor 
doesn't  traffic  in  quack  remedies.  I  don't  traffic 
in  bogus  books. 

"A  comical  thing  happened  the  other  day. 
There  is  a  certain  wealthy  man,  a  Mr.  Chapman, 
who  has  long  frequented  this  shop " 

"I  wonder  if  that  could  be  Mr.  Chapman  of  the 
Chapman  Daintybits  Company?"  said  Gilbert, 
feeling  his  feet  touch  familiar  soil. 

"The  same,  I  believe,"  said  Mifflin.  "Do  you 
know  him?" 

"Ah,"  cried  the  young  man  with  reverence. 
"There  is  a  man  who  can  tell  you  the  virtues  of 
advertising.  If  he  is  interested  in  books,  it  is 
advertising  that  made  it  possible.  We  handle  all 
his  copy — I've  written  a  lot  of  it  myself.  We 
have  made  the  Chapman  prunes  a  staple  of  civili- 
zation and  culture.  I  myself  devised  that  slogan 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          27 

'We  preen  ourselves  on  our  prunes'  which  you  see 
in  every  big  magazine.  Chapman  prunes  are 
known  the  world  over.  The  Mikado  eats  them 
once  a  week.  The  Pope  eats  them.  Why,  we  have 
just  heard  that  thirteen  cases  of  them  are  to  be  put 
on  board  the  George  Washington  for  the  President's 
voyage  to  the  Peace  Conference.  The  Czecho- 
slovak armies  were  fed  largely  on  prunes.  It  is 
our  conviction  in  the  office  that  our  campaign  for 
the  Chapman  prunes  did  much  to  win  the  war." 
"I  read  in  an  ad  the  other  day — perhaps  you 
wrote  that,  too?"  said  the  bookseller,  "that  the 
Elgin  watch  had  won  the  war.  However,  Mr. 
Chapman  has  long  been  one  of  my  best  customers. 
He  heard  about  the  Corn  Cob  Club,  and  though 
of  course  he  is  not  a  bookseller  he  begged  to  come 
to  our  meetings.  We  were  glad  to  have  him  do  so, 
and  he  has  entered  into  our  discussions  with  great 
zeal.  Often  he  has  offered  many  a  shrewd  com- 
ment. He  has  grown  so  enthusiastic  about  the 
bookseller's  way  of  life  that  the  other  day  he  wrote 
to  me  about  his  daughter  (he  is  a  widower).  She 
has  been  attending  a  fashionable  girls'  school 
where,  he  says,  they  have  filled  her  head  with 
absurd,  wasteful,  snobbish  notions.  He  says  she 
has  no  more  idea  of  the  usefulness  and  beauty  of 
life  than  a  Pomeranian  dog.  Instead  of  sending 
her  to  college,  he  has  asked  me  if  Mrs.  Mifflin  and  I 


28  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

will  take  her  in  here  to  learn  to  sell  books.  He 
wants  her  to  think  she  is  earning  her  keep,  and  is 
going  to  pay  me  privately  for  the  privilege  of  hav- 
ing her  live  here.  He  thinks  that  being  surrounded 
by  books  will  put  some  sense  in  her  head.  I  am 
rather  nervous  about  the  experiment,  but  it  is  a 
compliment  to  the  shop,  isn't  it?" 

"Ye  gods,"  cried  Gilbert,  "what  advertising 
copy  that  would  make ! " 

At  this  point  the  bell  in  the  shop  rang,  and 
Mifflin  jumped  up.  "This  part  of  the  evening  is 
often  rather  busy,"  he  said.  "I'm  afraid  I'll  have 
to  go  down  on  the  floor.  Some  of  my  habitues 
rather  expect  me  to  be  on  hand  to  gossip  about 
books." 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  much  I've  enjoyed  my- 
self," said  Gilbert.  "I'm  going  to  come  again  and 
study  your  shelves." 

"Well,  keep  it  dark  about  the  young  lady,"  said 
the  bookseller.  "  I  don't  want  all  you  young  blades 
dropping  in  here  to  unsettle  her  mind.  If  she 
falls  in  love  with  anybody  in  this  shop,  it'll  have 
to  be  Joseph  Conrad  or  John  Keats!" 

As  he  passed  out,  Gilbert  saw  Roger  Mifflin 
engaged  in  argument  with  a  bearded  man  who 
looked  like  a  college  professor.  "Carlyle's  Oliver 
Cromwell?"  he  was  saying.  "Yes,  indeed!  Right 
over  here!  Hullo,  that's  odd!  It  was  here." 


CHAPTER  II 
TEE  CORN  COB  CLUB* 

THE  Haunted  Bookshop  was  a  delightful 
place,  especially  of  an  evening,  when  its 
drowsy  alcoves  were  kindled  with  the 
brightness  of  lamps  shining  on  the  rows  of  volumes. 
Many  a  passer-by  would  stumble  down  the  steps 
from  the  street  in  sheer  curiosity;  others,  familiar 
visitors,  dropped  in  with  the  same  comfortable 
emotion  that  a  man  feels  on  entering  his  club. 
Roger's  custom  was  to  sit  at  his  desk  in  the  rear, 
puffing  his  pipe  and  reading;  though  if  any  custo- 
mer started  a  conversation,  the  little  man  was 
quick  and  eager  to  carry  it  on.  The  lion  of  talk 
lay  only  sleeping  in  him;  it  was  not  hard  to  goad  it 
up. 

It  may  be  remarked  that  all  bookshops  that  are 
open  in  the  evening  are  busy  in  the  after-supper 
hours.  Is  it  that  the  true  book-lovers  are  noc- 
turnal gentry,  only  venturing  forth  when  darkness 
and  silence  and  the  gleam  of  hooded  lights  ir- 

*The  latter  half  of  this  chapter  may  be  omitted  by  all  readers  who 
are  not  booksellers. 

29 


30  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

resistibly  suggest  reading?  Certainly  night-time 
has  a  mystic  affinity  for  literature,  and  it  is  strange 
that  the  Esquimaux  have  created  no  great  books. 
Certainly,  for  most  of  us,  an  arctic  night  would  be 
insupportable  without  O.  Henry  and  Stevenson. 
Or,  as  Roger  Mifflin  remarked  during  a  passing 
enthusiasm  for  Ambrose  Bierce,  the  true  nodes 
ambrosianae  are  the  nodes  ambrose  bierceianae. 

But  Roger  was  prompt  in  closing  Parnassus  at 
ten  o'clock.  At  that  hour  he  and  Bock  (the  mus- 
tard-coloured terrier,  named  for  Boccaccio)  would 
make  the  round  of  the  shop,  see  that  everything 
was  shipshape,  empty  the  ash  trays  provided  for 
customers,  lock  the  front  door,  and  turn  off  the 
lights.  Then  they  would  retire  to  the  den,  where 
Mrs.  Mifflin  was  generally  knitting  or  reading. 
She  would  brew  a  pot  of  cocoa  and  they  would 
read  or  talk  for  hah*  an  hour  or  so  before  bed. 
Sometimes  Roger  would  take  a  stroll  along  Gissing 
Street  before  turning  in.  All  day  spent  with  books 
has  a  rather  exhausting  effect  on  the  mind,  and 
he  used  to  enjoy  the  fresh  air  sweeping  up  the 
dark  Brooklyn  streets,  meditating  some  thought 
that  had  sprung  from  his  reading,  while  Bock 
sniffed  and  padded  along  in  the  manner  of  an 
elderly  dog  at  night. 

While  Mrs.  Mifflin  was  away,  however,  Roger's 
routine  was  somewhat  different.  After  closing 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          31 

the  shop  he  would  return  to  his  desk  and  with  a 
furtive,  shamefaced  air  take  out  from  a  bottom 
drawer  an  untidy  folder  of  notes  and  manuscript. 
This  was  the  skeleton  in  his  closet,  his  secret  sin. 
It  was  the  scaffolding  of  his  book,  which  he  had 
been  compiling  for  at  least  ten  years,  and  to  which 
he  had  tentatively  assigned  such  different  titles 
as  "Notes  on  Literature,"  "The  Muse  on  Crut- 
ches," "Books  and  I,"  and  "What  a  Young  Book- 
seller Ought  to  Know."  It  had  begun  long  ago, 
hi  the  days  of  his  odyssey  as  a  rural  book  huckster, 
under  the  title  of  "Literature  Among  the  Farm- 
ers," but  it  had  branched  out  until  it  began  to 
appear  that  (in  bulk  at  least)  Bidpath  would 
have  to  look  to  his  linoleum  laurels.  The  manu- 
script in  its  present  state  had  neither  beginning 
nor  end,  but  it  was  growing  strenuously  in  the 
middle,  and  hundreds  of  pages  were  covered  with 
Roger's  minute  script.  The  chapter  on  "Ars 
Bibliopolae,"  or  the  art  of  bookselling,  would  be, 
he  hoped,  a  classic  among  generations  of  book 
vendors  still  unborn.  Seated  at  his  disorderly 
desk,  caressed  by  a  counterpane  of  drifting  tobacco 
haze,  he  would  pore  over  the  manuscript,  crossing 
out,  interpolating,  re-arguing,  and  then  referring 
to  volumes  on  his  shelves.  Bock  would  snore  under 
the  chair,  and  soon  Roger's  brain  would  begin  to 
waver.  In  the  end  he  would  fall  asleep  over  his 


32  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

papers,  wake  with  a  cramp  about  two  o'clock,  and 
creak  irritably  to  a  lonely  bed. 

All  this  we  mention  only  to  explain  how  it  was 
that  Roger  was  dozing  at  his  desk  about  midnight, 
the  evening  after  the  call  paid  by  Aubrey  Gilbert. 
He  was  awakened  by  a  draught  of  chill  air  passing 
like  a  mountain  brook  over  his  bald  pate.  Stiffly 
he  sat  up  and  looked  about.  The  shop  was  in 
darkness  save  for  the  bright  electric  over  his  head. 
Bock,  of  more  regular  habit  than  his  master,  had 
gone  back  to  his  couch  in  the  kitchen,  made  of  a 
packing  case  that  had  once  coffined  a  set  of  the 
Encyclopaedia  Britannica. 

"  That's  funny,"  said  Roger  to  himself.  "  Surely 
I  locked  the  door?  "  He  walked  to  the  front  of  the 
shop,  switching  on  the  cluster  of  lights  that  hung 
from  the  ceiling.  The  door  was  ajar,  but  every- 
thing else  seemed  as  usual.  Bock,  hearing  his 
footsteps,  came  trotting  out  from  the  kitchen, 
his  claws  rattling  on  the  bare  wooden  floor.  i  He 
looked  up  with  the  patient  inquiry  of  a  dog  ac- 
customed to  the  eccentricities  of  his  patron. 

"I  guess  I'm  getting  absent-minded,"  said 
Roger.  "I  must  have  left  the  door  open."  He 
closed  and  locked  it.  Then  he  noticed  that  the 
terrier  was  sniffing  in  the  History  alcove,  which 
was  at  the  front  of  the  shop  on  the  left-hand  side. 

"What  is  it,  old  man?"  said  Roger.     "Want 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          33 

something  to  read  in  bed?"  He  turned  on  the 
light  in  that  alcove.  Everything  appeared  nor- 
mal. Then  he  noticed  a  book  that  projected  an 
inch  or  so  beyond  the  even  line  of  bindings.  It 
was  a  fad  of  Roger's  to  keep  all  his  books  in  a  flat 
row  on  the  shelves,  and  almost  every  evening 
at  closing  time  he  used  to  run  his  palm  along  the 
backs  of  the  volumes  to  level  any  irregularities  left 
by  careless  browsers.  He  put  out  a  hand  to  push 
the  book  into  place.  Then  he  stopped. 

"Queer  again,"  he  thought.  "Carlyle's  Oliver 
Cromwell!  I  looked  for^that  book  the  other  even- 
ing and  couldn't  find  it.  When  that  professor 
fellow  was  here.  Maybe  I'm  tired  and  can't  see 
straight.  I'll  go  to  bed." 

The  next  day  was  a  date  of  some  moment.  Not 
only  was  it  Thanksgiving  Day,  with  the  November 
meeting  of  the  Corn  Cob  Club  scheduled  for  that 
evening,  but  Mrs.  Mifflin  had  promised  to  get 
home  from  Boston  in  time  to  bake  a  chocolate  cake 
for  the  booksellers.  It  was  said  that  some  of  the 
members  of  the  club  were  faithful  in  attendance 
more  by  reason  of  Mrs.  Mifflin's  chocolate  cake, 
and  the  cask  of  cider  that  her  brother  Andrew 
McGill  sent  down  from  the  Sabine  Farm  every 
autumn,  than  on  account  of  the  bookish  conversa- 
tion. 


34  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

\ 

Roger  spent  the  morning  in  doing  a  little  house- 
cleaning,  in  preparation  for  his  wife's  return. 
He  was  a  trifle  abashed  to  find  .how  many  ^mingled 
crumbs  and  tobacco  cinders  had  accumulated  on 
the  dining-room  r\ig.  He  cooked  himself  a  modest 
lunch  of  lamb  chops  and  baked  potatoes,  and  was 
pleased  by  an  epigram  concerning  food  that  came 
into  his  mind.  "It's  not  the  food  you  dream  about 
that  matters,"  he  said  to  himself;  "it's  the  vittles 
that  walk  right  in  and  become  a  member  of  the 
family."  He  felt  that  this  needed  a  little  polishing 
and  rephrasing,  but  that  there  was  a  germ  of  wit 
in  it.  He  had  a  habit  of  encountering  ideas  at  his 
solitary  meals. 

After  this,  he  was  busy  at  the  sink  scrubbing  the 
dishes,  when  he  was  surprised  by  feeling  two  very 
competent  arms  surround  him,  and  a  pink  ging- 
ham apron  was  thrown  over  his  head.  "Mifflin," 
said  his  wife,  "how  many  times  have  I  told  you  to 
put  on  an  apron  when  you  wash  up ! " 

They  greeted  each  other  with  the  hearty,  affec- 
tionate simplicity  of  those  congenially  wedded  in 
middle  age.  Helen  Mifflin  was  a  buxom,  healthy 
creature,  rich  in  good  sense  and  good  humour, 
well  nourished  both  in  mind  and  body.  She  kissed 
Roger's  bald  head,  tied  the  apron  around  his 
shrimpish  person,  and  sat  down  on  a  kitchen  chair 
to  watch  him  finish  wiping  the  china.  Her  cheeks 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          35 

were  cool  and  ruddy  from  the  keen  air,  her  face  lit 
with  the  tranquil  satisfaction  of  those  who  have 
sojourned  in  the  comfortable  city  of  Boston. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Roger,  "this  makes  it  a 
real  Thanksgiving.  You  look  as  plump  and  full 
of  matter  as  The  Home  Book  of  Verse" 

"I've  had  a  stunning  time,"  she  said,  patting 
Bock  who  stood  at  her  knee,  imbibing  the  familiar 
and  mysterious  fragrance  by  which  dogs  identify 
their  human  friends.  "I  haven't  even  heard  of  a 
book  for  three  weeks.  I  did  stop  in  at  the  Old 
Angle  Book  Shop  yesterday,  just  to  say  hullo  to 
Joe  Jillings.  He  says  all  booksellers  are  crazy, 
but  that  you  are  the  craziest  of  the  lot.  He  wants 
to  know  if  you're  bankrupt  yet." 

Roger's  slate-blue  eyes  twinkled.  He  hung  up  a 
cup  in  the  china  closet  and  lit  his  pipe  before 
replying. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  said  that  our  shop  was  haunted,  and  mustn't 
be  supposed  to  come  under  the  usual  conditions  of 
the  trade." 

"Bully  for  you!  And  what  did  Joe  say  to 
that?" 

"'Haunted  by  the  nuts!'" 

"Well,"  said  Roger,  "when  literature  goes  bank- 
rupt I'm  willing  to  go  with  it.  Not  till  then. 
But  by  the  way,  we're  going  to  be  haunted  by  a 


36  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

beauteous  damsel  pretty  soon.  You  remember 
my  telb'ng  you  that  Mr.  Chapman  wants  to  send 
his  daughter  to  work  in  the  shop?  Well,  here's  a 
letter  I  had  from  him  this  morning." 

He  rummaged  in  his  pocket,  and  produced  the 
following,  which  Mrs.  Mifflin  read: 

DEAR  MR.  MIFFLIN, 

I  am  so  delighted  that  you  and  Mrs.  Mifflin  are  willing  to 
try  the  experiment  of  taking  my  daughter  as  an  apprentice. 
Titania  is  really  a  very  charming  girl,  and  if  only  we  can  get 
some  of  the  "finishing  school"  nonsense  out  of  her  head 
she  will  make  a  fine  woman.  She  has  had  (it  was  my  fault, 
not  hers)  the  disadvantage  of  being  brought  up,  or  rather 
brought  down,  by  having  every  possible  want  and  whim 
gratified.  Out  of  kindness  for  herself  and  her  future  husband, 
if  she  should  have  one,  I  want  her  to  learn  a  little  about  earn- 
ing a  living.  She  is  nearly  nineteen,  and  I  told  her  if  she 
would  try  the  bookshop  job  for  a  while  I  would  take  her  to 
Europe  for  a  year  afterward. 

As  I  explained  to  you,rl  want  her  to  think  she  is  really 
earning  her  way.  Of  course  I  don't  want  the  routine  to  be 
too  hard  for  her,  but  I  do  want  her  to  get  some  idea  of  what 
it  means  to  face  life  on  one's  own.  If  you  will  pay  her  ten 
dollars  a  week  as  a  beginner,  and  deduct  her  board  from  that, 
I  will  pay  you  twenty  dollars  a  week,  privately,  for  your  re- 
sponsibility in  caring  for  her  and  keeping  your  and  Mrs. 
Mifflin's  friendly  eyes  on  her.  I'm  coming  round  to  the  Corn 
Cob  meeting  to-morrow  night,  and  we  can  make  the  final 
arrangements. 

Luckily,  she  is  very  fond  of  books,  and  I  really  think  she  is 
frrwardjo  the  adventure  with  much  anticipation. 


TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          37 

I  overheard  her  saying  to  one  of  her  friends  yesterday  that 
she  was  going  to  do  some  "literary  work"  this  winter.  That's 
the  kind  of  nonsense  I  want  her  to  outgrow.  When  I  hear 
her  say  that  she's  got  a  job  in  a  bookstore,  I'll  know  she's 
cured. 

Cordially  yours, 

GEORGE  CHAPMAN. 

"Well?"  said  Roger,  as  Mrs.  Mifflin  made  no 
comment.  "Don't  you  think  it  will  be  rather 
interesting  to  get  a  nai've  young  girl's  reactions 
toward  the  problems  of  our  tranquil  existence?" 

"Roger,  you  blessed  innocent!"  cried  his  wife. 
."Life  will  no  longer  be  tranquil  with  a  girl  of  nine- 
teen round  the  place.  You  may  fool  yourself,  but 
you  can't  fool  me.  A  girl  of  nineteen  doesn't  react 
toward  things.  She  explodes.  Things  don't  *  re- 
act' anywhere  but  in  Boston  and  in  chemical 
laboratories.  I  suppose  you  know  you're  taking 
a  human  bombshell  into  the  arsenal?" 

Roger  looked  dubious.  "I  remember  something 
in  Weir  of  Hermiston  about  a  girl  being  'an  ex- 
plosive engine,'"  he  said.  "But  I  don't  see  that 
she  can  do  any  very  great  harm  round  here.  We're 
both  pretty  well  proof  against  shell  shock.  The 
worst  that  could  happen  would  be  if  she  got  hold  of 
my  private  copy  of  Fireside  Conversation  in  the  Age 
of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Remind  me  to  lock  it  up 
somewhere,  will  you?" 


38  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

This  secret  masterpiece  by  Mark  Twain  was 
one  of  the  bookseller's  treasures.  Not  even  Helen 
had  ever  been  permitted  to  read  it;  and  she  had 
shrewdly  judged  that  it  was  not  in  her  line,  for 
though  she  knew  perfectly  well  where  he  kept  it 
(together  with  his  life  insurance  policy,  some 
Liberty  Bonds,  an  autograph  letter  from  Charles 
Spencer  Chaplin,  and  a  snapshot  of  herself  taken 
on  their  honeymoon)  she  had  never  made  any 
attempt  to  examine  it. 

"Well,"  said  Helen;  "Titania  or  no  Titania,  if 
the  Corn  Cobs  want  their  chocolate  cake  to-night, 
I  must  get  busy.  Take  my  suitcase  upstairs  like  a 
good  fellow." 

A  gathering  of  booksellers  is  a  pleasant  sanhe- 
drim to  attend.  The  members  of  this  ancient 
craft  bear  mannerisms  and  earmarks  just  as  defi- 
nitely recognizable  as  those  of  the  cloak  and  suit 
business  or  any  other  trade.  They  are  likely  to  be 
a  little — shall  we  say — worn  at  the  bindings,  as 
becomes  men  who  have  forsaken  worldly  profit  to 
pursue  a  noble  calling  ill  rewarded  in  cash.  They 
are  possibly  a  trifle  embittered,  which  is  an  excel- 
lent demeanour  for  mankind  in  the  face  of  inscru- 
table heaven.  Long  experience  with  publishers' 
salesmen  makes  them  suspicious  of  books  praised 
between  the  courses  of  a  heavy  meal.  When  a 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          39 

publisher's  salesman  takes  you  out  to  dinner,  it  is 
not  surprising  if  the  conversation  turns  toward 
literature  about  the  time  the  last  of  the  peas  are 
being  harried  about  the  plate.  But,  as  Jerry 
Gladfist  says  (he  runs  a  shop  up  on  Thirty-Eighth 
Street)  the  publishers'  salesmen  supply  a  long-felt 
want,  for  they  do  now  and  then  buy  one  a  dinner 
the  like  of  which  no  bookseller  would  otherwise  be 
likely  to  commit. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  said  Roger  as  his  guests 
assembled  in  his  little  cabinet,  "it's  a  cold  evening. 
Pull  up  toward  the  fire.  Make  free  with  the  cider. 
The  cake's  on  the  table.  My  wife  came  back  from 
Boston  specially  to  make  it." 

"Here's  Mrs.  Mifflin's  health!"  said  Mr.  Chap- 
man, a  quiet  little  man  who  had  a  habit  of  listen- 
ing to  what  he  heard.  "I  hope  she  doesn't  mind 
keeping  the  shop  while  we  celebrate?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Roger.     "She  enjoys  it." 

"I  see  Tarzan  of  the  Apes  is  running  at  the 
Gissing  Street  movie  palace,"  said  Gladfist. 
"Great  stuff.  Have  you  seen  it?" 

"Not  while  I  can  still  read  The  Jungle  Boole," 
said  Roger. 

"You  make  me  tired  with  that  talk  about  litera- 
ture," cried  Jerry.  "A  book's  a  book,  even  if 
Harold  BeU  Wright  wrote  it." 

"A  book's  a  book  if  you  enjoy  reading  it," 


40  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

amended  Meredith,  from  a  big  Fifth  Avenue  book- 
store. "Lots  of  people  enjoy  Harold  Bell  Wright 
just  as  lots  of  people  enjoy  tripe.  Either  of  them 
would  kill  me.  But  let's  be  tolerant." 

"Your  argument  is  a  whole  succession  of  non 
sequiturs"  said  Jerry,  stimulated  by  the  cider  to 
unusual  brilliance. 

"That's  a  long  putt/'  chuckled  Benson,  the 
dealer  in  rare  books  and  first  editions. 

"What  I  mean  is  this,"  said  Jerry.  "We  aren't 
literary  critics.  It's  none  of  our  business  to  say 
what's  good  and  what  isn't.  Our  job  is  simply  to 
supply  the  public  with  the  books  it  wants  when  it 
wants  them.  How  it  comes  to  want  the  books  it 
does  is  no  concern  of  ours." 

"You're  the  guy  that  calls  bookselling  the  worst 
business  in  the  world,"  said  Roger  warmly,  "and 
you're  the  kind  of  guy  that  makes  it  so.  I  suppose 
you  would  say  that  it  is  no  concern  of  the  bookseller 
to  try  to  increase  the  public  appetite  for  books?  " 

"Appetite  is  too  strong  a  word,"  said  Jerry. 
"As  far  as  books  are  concerned  the  public  is  barely 
able  to  sit  up  and  take  a  little  liquid  nourishment. 
Solid  foods  don't  interest  it.  If  you  try  to  cram 
roast  beef  down  the  gullet  of  an  invalid  you'll  kill 
him.  Let  the  public  alone,  and  thank  God  when 
it  comes  round  to  amputate  any  of  its  hard-earned 
cash." 


TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          41 

"Well,  take  it  on  the  lowest  basis,"  said  Roger. 
"I  haven't  any  facts  to  go  upon " 

"You  never  have,"  interjected  Jerry. 

"But  I'd  like  to  bet  that  the  Trade  has  made 
more  money  out  of  Bryce's  American  Common- 
wealth than  it  ever  did  out  of  all  Parson  Wright's 
books  put  together." 

"What  of  it?  Why  shouldn't  they  make 
both?" 

This  preliminary  tilt  was  interrupted  by  the  ar- 
rival of  two  more  visitors,  and  Roger  handed 
round  mugs  of  cider,  pointed  to  the  cake  and  the 
basket  of  pretzels,  and  lit  his  corn-cob  pipe.  The 
new  arrivals  were  Quincy  and  Fruehling;  the  former 
a  clerk  in  the  book  department  of  a  vast  drygoods 
store,  the  latter  the  owner  of  a  bookshop  in  the 
Hebrew  quarter*  of  Grand  Street — one  of  the  best- 
stocked  shops  in  the  city,  though  little  known  to 
uptown  book-lovers. 

"Well,"  said  Fruehling,  his  bright  dark  eyes 
sparkling  above  richly  tinted  cheek-bones  and 
bushy  beard,  "what's  the  argument?" 

"The  usual  one,"  said  Gladfist,  grinning,  "Mif- 
flin  confusing  merchandise  with  metaphysics." 

MIFFUN — Not  at  all.  I  am  simply  saying  that 
it  is  good  business  to  sell  only  the  best. 

GLADFIST — Wrong  again.  You  must  select  your 
stock  according  to  your  customers.  Ask  Quincy 


42  TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

here.  Would  there  be  any  sense  in  his  loading  up 
his  shelves  with  Maeterlinck  and  Shaw  when  the 
department-store  trade  wants  Eleanor  Porter  and 
the  Tarzan  stuff?  Does  a  country  grocer  carry 
the  same  cigars  that  are  listed  on  the  wine  card  of  a 
Fifth  Avenue  hotel?  Of  course  not.  He  gets  in 
the  cigars  that  his  trade  enjoys  and  is  accustomed 
to.  Bookselling  must  obey  the  ordinary  rules  of 
commerce. 

MIFFLIN — A  fig  for  the  ordinary  rules  of  com- 
merce! I  came  over  here  to  Gissing  Street  to  get 
away  from  them.  My  mind  would  blow  out  its 
fuses  if  I  had  to  abide  by  the  dirty  little  considera- 
tions of  supply  and  demand.  As  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, supply  creates  demand. 

GLADFIST — Still,  old  chap,  you  have  to  abide 
by  the  dirty  little  consideration  of  earning  a  living, 
unless  someone  has  endowed  you? 

BENSON — Of  course  my  line  of  business  isn't 
strictly  the  same  as  you  fellows'.  But  a  thought 
that  has  often  occurred  to  me  in  selling  rare  edi- 
tions may  interest  you.  The  customer's  willing-, 
ness  to  part  with  his  money  is  usually  in  inverse 
ratio  to  the  permanent  benefit  he  expects  to  derive 
from  what  he  purchases. 

MEREDITH — Sounds  a  bit  like  John  Stuart  Mill, 

BENSON — Even  so,  it  may  be  true.  Folks  will 
pay  a  darned  sight  more  to  be  amused  than  they 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          43 

will  to  be  exalted.  Look  at  the  way  a  man  shells 
out  five  bones  for  a  couple  of  theatre  seats,  or 
spends  a  couple  of  dollars  a  week  on  cigars  without 
thinking  of  it.  Yet  two  dollars  or  five  dollars  for 
a  book  costs  him  positive  anguish.  The  mistake 
you  fellows  in  the  retail  trade  have  made  is  in  try- 
ing to  persuade  your  customers  that  books  are 
necessities.  Tell  them  they're  luxuries.  That'll 
get  them!  People  have  to  work  so  hard  in  this  life 
they're  shy  of  necessities.  A  man  will  go  on  wear- 
ing a  suit  until  it's  threadbare,  much  sooner  than 
smoke  a  threadbare  cigar. 

GLADFIST — Not  a  bad  thought.  You  know, 
Mifflin  here  calls  me  a  material-minded  cynic,  but, 
by  thunder,  I  think  I'm  more  idealistic  than  he  is. 
I'm  no  propagandist  incessantly  trying  to  cajole 
poor  innocent  customers  into  buying  the  kind  of 
book  /  think  they  ought  to  buy.  When  I  see  the 
helpless  pathos  of  most  of  them,  who  drift  into  a 
bookstore  without  the  slightest  idea  of  what  they 
want  or  what  is  worth  reading,  I  would  disdain  to 
take  advantage  of  their  frailty.  They  are  abso- 
lutely at  the  mercy  of  the  salesman.  They  will 
buy  whatever  he  tells  them  to.  Now  the  honour- 
able man,  the  high-minded  man  (by  which  I  mean 
myself)  is  too  proud  to  ram  some  shimmering  stun6 
at  them  just  because  he  thinks  they  ought  to  read 
it.  Let  the  boobs  blunder  around  and  grab  what 


44  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

they  can.  Let  natural  selection  operate.  I  think 
it  is  fascinating  to  watch  them,  to  see  their  help- 
less groping,  and  to  study  the  weird  ways  in  which 
they  make  their  choice.  Usually  they  will  buy  a 
book  either  because  they  think  the  jacket  is  at- 
tractive, or  because  it  costs  a  dollar  and  a  quarter 
instead  of  a  dollar  and  a  half,  or  because  they  say 
they  saw  a  review  of  it.  The  "review"  usually 
turns  out  to  be  an  ad.  I  don't  think  one  book- 
buyer  in  a  thousand  knows  the  difference. 

MIFFUN — Your  doctrine  is  pitiless,  base,  and 
false!  What  would  you  think  of  a  physician  who 
saw  men  suffering  from  a  curable  disease  and  did 
nothing  to  alleviate  their  sufferings? 

GLADFIST — Their  sufferings  (as  you  call  them) 
are  nothing  to  what  mine  would  be  if  I  stocked  up 
with  a  lot  of  books  that  no  one  but  highbrows 
would  buy.  What  would  you  think  of  a  base  public 
that  would  go  past  my  shop  day  after  day  and  let 
the  high-minded  occupant  die  of  starvation? 

MIFFLIN — Your  ailment,  Jerry,  is  that  you  con- 
ceive yourself  as  merely  a  tradesman.  What  I'm 
telling  you  is  that  the  bookseller  is  a  public  ser- 
vant. He  ought  to  be  pensioned  by  the  state. 
The  honour  of  his  profession  should  compel  him  to 
do  all  he  can  to  spread  the  distribution  of  good 
stuff. 

QUINCY — I  think  you  forget  how  much  we  who 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          45 

deal  chiefly  in  new  books  are  at  the  mercy  of  the 
publishers.  We  have  to  stock  the  new  stuff,  a 
large  proportion  of  which  is  always  punk.  Why  it 
is  punk,  goodness  knows,  because  most  of  the  bum 
books  don't  sell. 

MIFFLIN — Ah,  that  is  a  mystery  indeed!  But 
I  can  give  you  a  fair  reason.  First,  because  there 
isn't  enough  good  stuff  to  go  round.  Second,  be- 
cause of  the  ignorance  of  the  publishers,  many  of 
whom  honestly  don't  know  a  good  book  when  they 
see  it.  It  is  a  matter  of  sheer  heedlessness  in  the 
selection  of  what  they  intend  to  publish.  A  big 
drug  factory  or  a  manufacturer  of  a  well-known 
jam  spends  vast  sums  of  money  on  chemically  as- 
saying and  analyzing  the  ingredients  that  are  to  go 
into  his  medicines  or  in  gathering  and  selecting  the 
fruit  that  is  to  be  stewed  into  jam.  And  yet  they 
tell  me  that  the  most  important  department  of  a 
publishing  business,  which  is  the  gathering  and 
sampling  of  manuscripts,  is  the  least  considered 
and  the  least  remunerated.  I  knew  a  reader  for 
one  publishing  house:  he  was  a  babe  recently  out 
of  college  who  didn't  know  a  book  from  a  frat  pin. 
If  a  jam  factory  employs  a  trained  chemist,  why 
isn't  it  worth  a  publisher's  while  to  employ  an  expert 
book  analyzer?  There  are  some  of  them.  Look 
at  the  fellow  who  runs  the  Pacific  Monthly's  book 
business  for  example !  He  knows  a  thing  or  two. 


46  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

CHAPMAN — I  think  perhaps  you  exaggerate  the 
value  of  those  trained  experts.  They  are  likely  to 
be  fourflushers.  We  had  one  once  at  our  factory, 
and  as  far  as  I  could  make  out  he  never  thought 
we  were  doing  good  business  except  when  we  were 
losing  money. 

MIFFLIN — As  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  observe, 
making  money  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world. 
All  you  have  to  do  is  to  turn  out  an  honest  product, 
something  that  the  public  needs.  Then  you  have 
to  let  them  know  that  you  have  it,  and  teach  them 
that  they  need  it.  They  will  batter  down  your 
front  door  in  their  eagerness  to  get  it.  But  if  you 
begin  to  hand  them  gold  bricks,  if  you  begin  to  sell 
them  books  built  like  an  apartment  house,  all 
marble  front  and  all  brick  behind,  you're  cutting 
your  own  throat,  or  rather  cutting  your  own  pocket, 
which  is  the  same  thing. 

MEREDITH — I  think  Mifflin's  right.  You  know 
the  kind  of  place  onr  shop  is:  a  regular  Fifth  Avenue 
store,  all  plate  glass  front  and  marble  columns 
glowing  in  the  indirect  lighting  like  a  birch  wood  at 
full  moon.  We  sell  hundreds  of  dollars'  worth  of 
bunkum  every  day  because  people  ask  for  it; 
but  I  tell  you  we  do  it  with  reluctance.  It's  rather 
the  custom  in  our  shop  to  scoff  at  the  book-buying 
public  and  call  them  boobs,  but  they  really  want 
good  books — the  poor  souls  don't  know  how  to  get 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          47 

them.  Still,  Jerry  has  a  certain  grain  of  truth  to 
his  credit.  I  get  ten  times  more  satisfaction  in 
selling  a  copy  of  Newton's  The  Amenities  of  Book- 
Collecting  than  I  do  in  selling  a  copy  of — well, 
Tarzan;  but  it's  poor  business  to  impose  your 
own  private  tastes  on  your  customers.  All  you 
can  do  is  to  hint  them  along  tactfully,  when  you  get 
a  chance,  toward  the  stuff  that  counts. 

QUINCY — You  remind  me  of  something  that 
happened  in  our  book  department  the  other  day. 
A  flapper  came  in  and  said  she  had  forgotten  the 
name  of  the  book  she  wanted,  but  it  was  something 
about  a  young  man  who  had  been  brought  up  by 
the  monks.  I  was  stumped.  I  tried  her  with 
The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth  and  Monastery  Bells 
and  Legends  of  the  Monastic  Orders  and  so  on,  but 
her  face  was  blank.  Then  one  of  the  salesgirls 
overheard  us  talking,  and  she  guessed  it  right  off 
the  bat.  Of  course  it  was  Tarzan. 

MIFFLTN — You  poor  simp,  there  was  your  chance 
to  introduce  her  to  Mowgli  and  the  bandar-log. 

QUINCY — True — I  didn't  think  of  it. 

MIFFLIN — I'd  like  to  get  you  fellows'  ideas  about 
advertising.  There  was  a  young  chap  in  here  the 
other  day  from  an  advertising  agency,  trying  to 
get  me  to  put  some  copy  in  the  papers.  Have  you 
found  that  it  pays? 

FRUEHLING — It  always  pays — somebody.    The 


48  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

only  question  is,  does  it  pay  the  man  who  pays  for 
the  ad? 

MEREDITH — What  do  you  mean? 

FRUEHUNG — Did  you  ever  consider  the  problem 
of  what  I  call  tangential  advertising?  By  that  I 
mean  advertising  that  benefits  your  rival  rather 
than  yourself?  Take  an  example.  On  Sixth 
Avenue  there  is  a  lovely  delicatessen  shop,  but 
rather  expensive.  Every  conceivable  kind  of 
sweetmeat  and  relish  is  displayed  in  the  brightly 
lit  window.  When  you  look  at  that  window  it 
simply  makes  your  mouth  water.  You  decide  to 
have  something  to  eat.  But  do  you  get  it  there? 
Not  much!  You  go  a  little  farther  down  the  street 
and  get  it  at  the  Automat  or  the  Crystal  Lunch. 
The  delicatessen  fellow  pays  the  overhead  expense 
of  that  beautiful  food  exhibit,  and  the  other  man 
gets  the  benefit  of  it.  It's  the  same  way  in  my  busi- 
ness. I'm  in  a  factory  district,  where  people 
can't  afford  to  have  any  but  the  best  books. 
(Meredith  will  bear  me  out  in  saying  that  only  the 
wealthy  can  afford  the  poor  ones.)  They  read  the 
book  ads  in  the  papers  and  magazines,  the  ads  of 
Meredith's  shop  and  others,  and  then  they  come 
to  me  to  buy  them.  I  believe  in  advertising,  but  I 
believe  in  letting  someone  else  pay  for  it. 

MIFFLIN — I  guess  perhaps  I  can  afford  to  go  on 
riding  on  Meredith's  ads.  I  hadn't  thought  of 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          49 

that.    But  I  think  I  shall  put  a  little  notice  in  one 
of  the  papers  some  day,  just  a  little  card  saying 


PARNASSUS  AT  HOME 
GOOD  BOOKS  BOUGHT 

AND  SOLD 
THIS  SHOP  IS  HAUNTED 


It  will  be  fun  to  see  what  come-back  I  get. 

QUINCY — The  book  section  of  a  department  store 
doesn't  get  much  chance  to  enjoy  that  tangential 
advertising,  as  Fruehling  calls  it.  Why,  when  our 
interior  decorating  shark  puts  a  few  volumes  of  a 
pirated  Kipling  bound  in  crushed  oilcloth  or  a  copy 
of  "Knock-kneed  Stories,"  into  the  window  to  show 
off  a  Louis  XVIII  boudoir  suite,  display  space  is 
charged  up  against  my  department!  Last  sum- 
mer he  asked  me  for  "something  by  that  Ring 
fellow,  I  forget  the  name,"  to  jfcit  a  punchy  finish 
on  a  layout  of  porch  furniture.  I  thought  perhaps 
he  meant  Wagner's  Nibelungen  operas,  and  began 
to  dig  them  out.  Then  I  found  he  meant  Ring 
Lardner. 

GLADFIST — There  you  are.  I  keep  telling  you 
bookselling  is  an  impossible  job  for  a  man  who  loves 
literature.  When  did  a  bookseller  ever  make  any 
real  contribution  to  the  world's  happiness? 


50  TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

MIFFUN — Dr.  Johnson's  father  was  a  bookseller. 

GLADFIST — Yes,  and  couldn't  afford  to  pay  for 
Sam's  education. 

FRUEHUNG — There's  another  kind  of  tangential 
advertising  that  interests  me.  Take,  for  instance,  a 
Coles  Phillips  painting  for  some  brand  of  silk 
stockings.  Of  course  the  high  lights  of  the  pic- 
ture are  cunningly  focussed  on  the  stockings  of  the 
eminently  beautiful  lady;  but  there  is  always 
something  else  in  the  picture — an  automobile  or  a 
country  house  or  a  Morris  chair  or  a  parasol — 
which  makes  it  just  as  effective  an  ad  for  those 
goods  as  it  is  for  the  stockings.  Every  now  and 
then  Phillips  sticks  a  book  into  his  paintings,  and  I 
expect  the  Fifth  Avenue  book  trade  benefits  by  it. 
A  book  that  fits  the  mind  as  well  as  a  silk  stocking 
does  the  ankle  will  be  sure  to  sell. 

MJFFLIN — You  are  all  crass  materialists.  I  tell 
you,  books  are  the  depositories  of  the  human 
spirit,  whiqh  is  the  only  thing  in  this  world  that 
endures.  What  was  it  Shakespeare  said — 

Not  marble  nor  the  gilded  monuments 

Of  princes  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme — 

By  the  bones  of  the  Hohenzollerna,  he  was  right! 
And  wait  a  minute!  There's  something  in  Car- 
lyle's  Cromwell  that  comes  back  to  me. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          51 

He  ran  excitedly  out  of  the  room,  and  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Corn  Cob  fraternity  grinned  at  each 
other.  Gladfist  cleaned  his  pipe  and  poured  out 
some  more  cider.  "He's  off  on  his  hobby,"  he 
chuckled.  "I  love  baiting  him." 

"Speaking  of  Carlyle's  Cromwell,"  said  Frueh- 
ling,  "that's  a  book  I  don't  often  hear  asked  for. 
But  a  fellow  came  in  the  other  day  hunting  for  a 
copy,  and  to  my  chagrin  I  didn't  have  one.  I 
rather  pride  myself  on  keeping  that  sort  of  thing  in 
stock.  So  I  called  up  Brentano's  to  see  if  I  could 
pick  one  up,  and  they  told  me  they  had  just  sold 
the  only  copy  they  had.  Somebody  must  have  been 
boosting  Thomas!  Maybe  he's  quo  ted  in  Tarzan, 
or  somebody  has  bought  up  the  film  rights." 

Mifflin  came  in,  looking  rather  annoyed. 

"Here's  an  odd  thing,"  he  said.  "I  know  damn 
well  that  copy  of  Cromwell  was  on  the  shelf 
because  I  saw  it  there  last  night.  It's  not  there 


now." 


"That's  nothing,"  said  Quincy.  "You  know 
how  people  come  into  a  second-hand  store,  see  a 
book  they  take  a  fancy  to  but  don't  feel  like  buying 
just  then,  and  tuck  it  away  out  of  sight  or  on  some 
other  shelf  where  they  think  no  one  else  will  spot 
it,  but  they'll  be  able  to  find  it  when  they  can  af- 
ford it.  Probably  someone's  done  that  with  your 
Cromwell. " 


52  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"Maybe,  but  I  doubt  it,"  said  Mifflin.  "Mrs. 
Mifflin  says  she  didn't  sell  it  this  evening.  I  woke 
her  up  to  ask  her.  She  was  dozing  over  her  knit- 
ting at  the  desk.  I  guess  she's  tired  after  her  trip. " 

"I'm  sorry  to  miss  the  Carlyle  quotation,"  said 
Benson.  "What  was  the  gist?" 

"I  think  I've  got  it  jotted  down  in  a  notebook," 
said  Roger,  hunting  along  a  shelf.  "Yes,  here  it 
is."  He  read  aloud: 

"The  works  of  a  man,  bury  them  under  what  guano-mountains 
and  obscene  owl-droppings  you  will,  do  not  perish,  cannot 
perish.  What  of  Heroism,  what  of  Eternal  Light  was  in  a  Man 
and  his  Life,  is  with  very  great  exactness  added  to  the  Eternities; 
remains  forever  a  new  divine  portion  of  the  Sum  of  Things. 

"Now,  my  friends,  the  bookseller  is  one  of  the  keys 
in  that  universal  adding  machine,  because  he  aids 
in  the  cross-fertilization  of  men  and  books.  His 
delight  in  his  calling  doesn't  need  to  be  stimulated 
even  by  the  bright  shanks  of  a  Coles  Phillips  pic- 
ture." 

"Roger,  my  boy,"  said  Gladfist,  "your  innocent 
enthusasim  makes  me  think  of  Tom  Daly's  fa- 
vourite story  about  the  Irish  priest  who  was  rebuk- 
ing his  flock  for  their  love  of  whisky.  '  Whisky,'  he 
said,  'is  the  bane  of  this  congregation.  Whisky, 
that  steals  away  a  man's  brains.  Whisky,  that 
makes  you  shoot  at  landlords — and  not  hit  them!' 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          53 

Even  so,  my  dear  Roger,  your  enthusiasm  makes 
you  shoot  at  truth  and  never  come  anywhere  near 
it." 

"Jerry,"  said  Roger,  "you  are  a  upas  tree. 
Your  shadow  is  poisonous!" 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Chapman,  "I 
know  Mrs.  Mifflin  wants  to  be  relieved  of  her  post. 
I  vote  we  adjourn  early.  Your  conversation  is 
always  delightful,  though  I  am  sometimes  a  bit 
uncertain  as  to  the  conclusions.  My  daughter  is 
going  to  be  a  bookseller,  and  I  shall  look  forward 
to  hearing  her  views  on  the  business." 

As  the  guests  made  their  way  out  through  the 
shop,  Mr.  Chapman  drew  Roger  aside.  "It's  per- 
fectly all  right  about  sending  Titania?"  he  asked. 

"Absolutely,"  said  Roger.  "When  does  she 
want  to  come?  " 

"Is  to-morrow  too  soon?" 

"  The  sooner  the  better.  We've  got  a  little  spare 
room  upstairs  that  she  can  have.  I've  got  some 
ideas  of  my  own  about  furnishing  it  for  her.  Send 
her  round  to-morrow  afternoon." 


CHAPTER  III 
TITANIA  ARRIVES 

THE  first  pipe  after  breakfast  is  a  rite  of  some 
importance  to  seasoned  smokers,  and  Roger 
applied  the  flame  to  the  bowl  as  he  stood  at 
the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  He  blew  a  great  gush  of 
strong  blue  reek  that  eddied  behind  him  as  he  ran 
up  the  flight,  his  mind  eagerly  meditating  the  con- 
genial task  of  arranging  the  little  spare  room  for  the 
coming  employee.  Then,  at  the  top  of  the  steps, 
he  found  that  his  pipe  had  already  gone  out. 
"What  with  filling  my  pipe  and  emptying  it, 
lighting  it  and  relighting  it,"  he  thought,  "I  don't 
seem  to  get  much  time  for  the  serious  concerns  of 
life.  Come  to  think  of  it,  smoking,  soiling  dishes 
and  washing  them,  talking  and  listening  to  other 
people  talk,  take  up  most  of  life  anyway." 

This  theory  rather  pleased  him,  so  he  ran  down- 
stairs again  to  tell  it  to  Mrs.  Mifflin. 

"Go  along  and  get  that  room  fixed  up,"  she  said, 
"and  don't  try  to  palm  off  any  bogus  doctrines 
on  me  so  early  in  the  morning.  Housewives  have 
no  time  for  philosophy  after  breakfast." 

Roger  thoroughly  enjoyed  himself  in  the  task  of 

54 


,THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          55 

preparing  the  guest-room  for  the  new  assistant. 
It  was  a  small  chamber  at  the  back  of  the  second 
storey,  opening  on  to  a  narrow  passage  that  con- 
nected through  a  door  with  the  gallery  of  the  book- 
shop. Two  small  windows  commanded  a  view  of 
the  modest  roofs  of  that  quarter  of  Brooklyn,  roofs 
that  conceal  so  many  brave  hearts,  so  many  baby 
carriages,  so  many  cups  of  bad  coffee,  and  so  many 
cartons  of  the  Chapman  prunes. 

"By  the  way,"  he  called  downstairs,  "better 
have  some  of  the  prunes  for  supper  to-night,  just 
as  a  compliment  to  Miss  Chapman." 

Mrs.  Mifflin  preserved  a  humorous  silence. 

Over  these  noncommittal  summits  the  bright  eye 
of  the  bookseller,  as  he  tacked  up  the  freshly  ironed 
muslin  curtains  Mrs.  Mifflin  had  allotted,  could 
discern  a  glimpse  of  the  bay  and  the  leviathan  ferries 
that  link  Staten  Island  with  civilization.  "Just  a 
touch  of  romance  in  the  outlook,"  he  thought  to 
himself.  "It  will  suffice  to  keep  a  blasee  young 
girl  aware  of  the  excitements  of  existence." 

The  room,  as  might  be  expected  in  a  house  pre- 
sided over  by  Helen  Mifflin,  was  in  perfect  order  to 
receive  any  occupant,  but  Roger  had  volunteered 
to  psychologize  it  in  such  a  fashion  as  (he  thought) 
would  convey  favourable  influences  to  the  mis- 
guided young  spirit  that  was  to  be  its  tenant. 
Incurable  idealist,  he  had  taken  quite  gravely  his 


56  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

responsibility  as  landlord  and  employer  of  Mr. 
Chapman's  daughter.  No  chambered  nautilus 
was  to  have  better  opportunity  to  expand  the 
tender  mansions  of  its  soul. 

Beside  the  bed  was  a  bookshelf  with  a  reading 
lamp.  The  problem  Roger  was  discussing  was 
what  books  and  pictures  might  be  the  best  preach- 
ers to  this  congregation  of  one.  To  Mrs.  Mifflin's 
secret  amusement  he  had  taken  down  the  picture  of 
Sir  Galahad  which  he  had  once  hung  there,  because 
(as  he  had  said)  if  Sir  Galahad  were  living  to-day 
he  would  be  a  bookseller.  "We  don't  want  her 
feasting  her  imagination  on  young  Galahads," 
he  had  remarked  at  breakfast.  "That  way  lies 
premature  matrimony.  What  I  want  to  do  is  put 
up  in  her  room  one  or  two  good  prints  representing 
actual  men  who  were  so  delightful  in  their  day  that 
all  the  young  men  she  is  likely  to  see  now  will  seem 
tepid  and  prehensile.  Thus  she  will  become  dis- 
gusted with  the  present  generation  of  youths  and 
there  will  be  some  chance  of  her  really  putting  her 
mind  on  the  book  business." 

Accordingly  he  had  spent  some  time  in  going 
through  a  bin  where  he  kept  photos  and  drawings 
of  authors  that  the  publishers'  "publicity  men" 
were  always  showering  upon  him.  After  some 
thought  he  discarded  promising  engravings  of 
Harold  Bell  Wright  and  Stephen  Leacock,  and  chose 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          57 

pictures  of  Shelley,  Anthony  Trollope,  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson,  and  Robert  Burns.  Then,  after 
further  meditation,  he  decided  that  neither  Shelley 
nor  Burns  would  quite  do  for  a  young  girl's  room, 
and  set  them  aside  in  favour  of  a  portrait  of  Samuel 
Butler.  To  these  he  added  a  framed  text  that  he 
was  very  fond  of  and  had  hung  over  his  own  desk. 
He  had  once  clipped  it  from  a  copy  of  Life  and 
found  much  pleasure  in  it.  It  runs  thus: 


ON  THE  RETURN  OF  A  BOOK 
LENT  TO  A  FRIEND 

I  GIVE  humble  and  hearty  thanks  for  the  safe  return 
of  this  book  which  having  endured  the  perils  of  my 
friend's  bookcase,  and  the  bookcases  of  my  friend's 
friends,  now  returns  to  me  in  reasonably  good  condition. 

I  GIVE  humble  and  hearty  thanks  that  my  friend  did 
not  see  fit  to  give  this  book  to  his  infant  as  a  plaything, 
nor  use  it  as  an  ash-tray  for  his  burning  cigar,  nor  as  a 
teething-ring  for  his  mastiff. 

WHEN  I  lent  this  book  I  deemed  it  as  lost:  I  was  re- 
signed to  the  bitterness  of  the  long  parting:  I  never 
thought  to  look  upon  its  pages  again. 

BUT  NOW  that  my  book  is  come  back  to  me,  I  rejoice 
and  am  exceeding  glad!  Bring  hither  the  fatted  mo- 
rocco and  let  us  rebind  the  volume  and  set  it  on  the  shelf 
of  honour:  for  this  my  book  was  lent,  and  is  returned 
again. 

PRESENTLY,  therefore,  I  may  return  some  of  the 
books  that  I  myself  have  borrowed. 


58  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"  There ! "  he  thought.  "  That  will  convey  to  her 
the  first  element  of  book  morality." 

These  decorations  having  been  displayed  on  the 
walls,  he  bethought  himself  of  the  books  that  should 
stand  on  the  bedside  shelf. 

This  is  a  question  that  admits  of  the  utmost 
nicety  of  discussion.  Some  authorities  hold  that 
the  proper  books  for  a  guest-room  are  of  a  soporific 
quality  that  will  induce  swift  and  painless  repose. 
This  school  advises  The  Wealth  of  Nations,  Rome 
under  the  Ccesars,  The  Statesman's  Year  Book, 
certain  novels  of  Henry  James,  and  The  Letters  of 
Queen  Victoria  (in  three  volumes).  It  is  plausibly 
contended  that  books  of  this  kind  cannot  be  read 
(late  at  night)  for  more  than  a  few  minutes  at  a 
time,  and  that  they  afford  useful  scraps  of  informa- 
tion. 

Another  branch  of  opinion  recommends  for  bed- 
time reading  short  stories,  volumes  of  pithy  anec- 
dote, swift  and  sparkling  stuff  that  may  keep  one 
awake  for  a  space,  yet  will  advantage  all  the 
sweeter  slumber  in  the  end.  Even  ghost  stories 
and  harrowing  matter  are  maintained  seasonable 
by  these  pundits.  This  class  of  reading  comprises 
O.  Henry,  Bret  Harte,  Leonard  Merrick,  Ambrose 
Bierce,  W.  W.  Jacobs,  Daudet,  de  Maupassant, 
and  possibly  even  On  a  Slow  Train  Through  Arkan- 
saw,  that  grievous  classic  of  the  railway  bookstalls 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          59 

whereof  its  author,  Mr.  Thomas  W.  Jackson,  has 
said  "It  will  sell  forever,  and  a  thousand  years 
afterward."  To  this  might  be  added  another  of 
Mr.  Jackson's  onslaughts  on  the  human  intelli- 
gence, Tm  From  Texas,  You  Can't  Steer  Me, 
whereof  is  said  (by  the  author)  "It  is  like  a  hard- 
boiled  egg,  you  can't  beat  it."  There  are  other  of 
Mr.  Jackson's  books,  whose  titles  escape  memory, 
whereof  he  has  said  "They  are  a  dynamite  for 
sorrow."  Nothing  used  to  annoy  Mifflin  more 
than  to  have  someone  come  in  and  ask  for 
copies  of  these  works.  His  brother-in-law,  An- 
drew McGill,  the  writer,  once  gave  him  for  Christ- 
mas (just  to  annoy  him)  a  copy  of  On  a  Slow  Train 
Through  ArJcansaw  sumptuously  bound  and  gilded 
in  what  is  known  to  the  trade  as  "dove-coloured 
ooze."  Roger  retorted  by  sending  Andrew  (for 
his  next  birthday)  two  volumes  of  Brann  the 
Iconoclast  bound  in  what  Robert  Cortes  Holliday 
calls  "embossed  toadskin."  But  that  is  apart  from 
the  story. 

To  the  consideration  of  what  to  put  on  Miss 
Titania's  bookshelf  Roger  devoted  the  delighted 
hours  of  the  morning.  Several  times  Helen  called 
hjm  to  come  down  and  attend  to  the  shop,  but  he 
was  sitting  on  the  floor,  unaware  of  numbed  shins, 
poring  over  the  volumes  he  had  carted  upstairs  for 
a  final  culling.  "It  will  be  a  great  privilege,"  he 


60  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

said  to  himself,  "to  have  a  young  mind  to  experi- 
ment with.  Now  my  wife,  delightful  creature 
though  she  is,  was — well,  distinctly  mature  when  I 
had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  her;  I  have  never 
been  able  properly  to  supervise  her  mental  proc- 
esses. But  this  Chapman  girl  will  come  to  us 
wholly  unlettered.  Her  father  said  she  had  been 
to  a  fashionable  school:  that  surely  is  a  guarantee 
that  the  delicate  tendrils  of  her  mind  have  never 
begun  to  sprout.  I  will  test  her  (without  her 
knowing  it)  by  the  books  I  put  here  for  her.  By 
noting  which  of  them  she  responds  to,  I  will  know 
how  to  proceed.  It  might  be  worth  while  to  shut 
up  the  shop  one  day  a  week  in  order  to  give  her 
some  brief  talks  on  literature.  Delightful!  Let 
me  see,  a  little  series  of  talks  on  the  development 
of  the  English  novel,  beginning  with  Tom  Jones — 
hum,  that  would  hardly  do!  Well,  I  have  always 
longed  to  be  a  teacher,  this  looks  like  a  chance  to 
begin.  We  might  invite  some  of  the  neighbours  to 
send  in  their  children  once  a  week,  and  start  a  little 
school.  Causeries  du  lundi,  in  fact!  Who  knows, 
I  may  yet  be  the  Sainte  Beuve  of  Brooklyn." 

Across  his  mind  flashed  a  vision  of  newspaper 
clippings^ — "  This  remarkable  student  of  letters,  who 
hides  his  brilliant  parts  under  the  unassuming 
existence  of  a  second-hand  bookseller,  is  now  recog- 
nized as  the " 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          61 

"Roger!"  called  Mrs.  Mifflin  from  downstairs: 
"Front!  someone  wants  to  know  if  you  keep  back 
numbers  of  Foamy  Stories." 

After  he  had  thrown  out  the  intruder,  Roger  re- 
turned to  his  meditation.  "This  selection,"  he 
mused,  "is  of  course  only  tentative.  It  is  to  act 
as  a  preliminary  test,  to  see  what  sort  of  thing 
interests  her.  First  of  all,  her  name  naturally 
suggests  Shakespeare  and  the  Elizabethans.  It's 
a  remarkable  name,  Titania  Chapman:  there  must 
be  great  virtue  in  prunes!  Let's  begin  with  a 
volume  of  Christopher  Marlowe.  Then  Keats,  I 
guess:  every  young  person  ought  to  shiver  over 
St.  Agnes'  Eve  on  a  bright  cold  winter  evening. 
Over  Bemerton's,  certainly,  because  it's  a  bookshop 
story.  Eugene  Field's  Tribune  Primer  to  try  out 
her  sense  of  humour.  And  Archy,  by  all  means,  for 
the  same  reason.  I'll  go  down  and  get  the  Archy 
scrapbook." 

It  should  be  explained  that  Roger  was  a  keen 
admirer  of  Don  Marquis,  the  humourist  of  the 
New  York  Evening  Sun.  Mr.  Marquis  once  lived 
in  Brooklyn,  and  the  bookseller  was  never  tired  of 
saying  that  he  was  the  most  eminent  author  who 
had  graced  the  borough  since  the  days  of  Walt 
Whitman.  Archy,  the  imaginary  cockroach  whom 
Mr.  Marquis  uses  as  a  vehicle  for  so  much  excellent 
fun,  was  a  constant  delight  to  Roger,  and  he  had 


62  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

kept  a  scrapbook  of  all  Archy's  clippings.  This 
bulky  tome  he  now  brought  out  from  the  grotto 
by  his  desk  where  his  particular  treasures  were 
kept.  He  ran  his  eye  over  it,  and  Mrs.  Mifflin 
heard  him  utter  shrill  screams  of  laughter. 

"What  on  earth  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"Only  Archy,"  he  said,  and  began  to  read 
aloud — 

down  in  a  wine  vault  underneath  the  city 

two  old  men  were  sitting  they  were  drinking  booze 

torn  were  their  garments  hair  and  beards  were  gritty 
one  had  an  overcoat  but  hardly  any  shoes 

overhead  the  street  cars  through  the  streets  were  running 
filled  with  happy  people  going  home  to  christmas 

in  the  adirondacks  the  hunters  all  were  gunning 
big  ships  were  sailing  down  by  the  isthmus 

in  came  a  little  tot  for  to  kiss  her  granny 

such  a  little  totty  she  could  scarcely  tottle 
saying  kiss  me  grandpa  kiss  your  little  nanny 

but  the  old  man  beaned  her  with  a  whisky  bottle 

outside  the  snowflakes  began  for  to  flutter 

far  at  sea  the  ships  were  sailing  with  the  seamen 

not  another  word  did  angel  nanny  utter 

her  grandsire  chuckled  and  pledged  the  whisky  demon 

up  spake  the  second  man  he  was  worn  and  weary 
tears  washed  his  face  which  otherwise  was  pasty 

she  loved  her  parents  who  commuted  on  the  erie 
brother  im  afraid  you  struck  a  trifle  hasty 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP  63 

she  came  to  see  you  all  her  pretty  duds  on 

bringing  christmas  posies  from  her  mothers  garden 

riding  in  the  tunnel  underneath  the  hudson 
brother  was  it  rum  caused  your  heart  to  harden 

"What  on  earth  is  there  funny  in  that?"  said 
Mrs.  Mifflin.  "Poor  little  lamb,  I  think  it  was 
terrible." 

"There's  more  of  it,"  cried  Roger,  and  opened  his 
mouth  to  continue. 

"No  more,  thank  you,"  said  Helen.  "There 
ought  to  be  a  fine  for  using  the  meter  of  Love  in 
the  Valley  that  way.  I'm  going  out  to  market 
so  if  the  bell  rings  you'll  have  to  answer  it." 

Roger  added  the  Archy  scrapbook  to  Miss 
Titania's  shelf,  and  went  on  browsing  over  the 
volumes  he  had  collected. 

"The  Nigger  of  the  Narcissus,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "for  even  if  she  doesn't  read  the  s.tory  per- 
haps she'll  read  the  preface,  which  not  marble  nor 
the  monuments  of  princes  will  outlive.  Dickers' 
Christmas  Stories  to  introduce  her  to  Mrs. 
Lirriper,  the  queen  of  landladies.  Publishers  tell 
me  that  Norfolk  Street,  Strand,  is  best  known  for 
the  famous  literary  agent  that  has  his  office  there, 
but  I  wonder  how  many  of  them  know  that  that  was 
where  Mrs.  Lirriper  had  her  immortal  lodgings? 
The  Notebooks  of  Samuel  Butler,  just  to  give  her 
a  little  intellectual  jazz.  The  Wrong  Box,  be- 


64  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

cause  it's  the  best  farce  in  the  language.  Travels 
with  a  Donkey,  to  show  her  what  good  writing  is 
like.  The  Four  Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse  to 
give  her  a  sense  of  pity  for  human  woes — wait 
a  minute,  though:  that's  a  pretty  broad  book  for 
young  ladies.  I  guess  we'll  put  it  aside  and  see 
what  else  there  is.  Some  of  Mr.  Mosher's  cata- 
logues: fine!  they'll  show  her  the  true  spirit  of  what 
one  book-lover  calls  biblio-bliss.  Walking-Stick 
Papers — yes,  there  are  still  good  essayists  running 
around.  A  bound  file  of  'The  Publishers'  Weekly 
to  give  her  a  smack  of  trade  matters.  Jo's  Boys 
in  case  she  needs  a  little  relaxation.  The  Lays  of 
Ancient  Rome  and  Austin  Dobson  to  show  her 
some  good  poetry.  I  wonder  if  they  give  them 
The  Lays  to  read  in  school  nowadays?  I  have  a 
horrible  fear  they  are  brought  up  on  the  battle  of 
Salamis  and  the  brutal  redcoats  of  '76.  And  now 
we'll  be  exceptionally  subtle:  we'll  stick  in  a  Robert 
Chambers  to  see  if  she  falls  for  it." 

He  viewed  the  shelf  with  pride.  "Not  bad," 
he  said  to  himself.  "I'll  just  add  this  Leonard 
Merrick,  Whispers  about  Women,  to  amuse  her. 
I  bet  that  title  will  start  her  guessing.  Helen  will 
say  I  ought  to  have  included  the  Bible,  but  I'll 
omit  it  on  purpose,  just  to  see  whether  the  girl 
misses  it." 

With  typical  male  curiosity  he  pulled  out  the 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          65 

bureau  drawers  to  see  what  disposition  his  wife  had 
made  of  them,  and  was  pleased  to  find  a  little  muslin 
bag  of  lavender  dispersing  a  quiet  fragrance  in 
each.  "Very  nice,"  he  remarked.  "Very  nice 
indeed!  About  the  only  thing  missing  is  an  ash- 
tray. If  Miss  Titania  is  as  modern  as  some  of 
them,  that'll  be  the  first  thing  she'll  call  for.  And 
maybe  a  copy  of  Ezra  Pound's  poems.  I  do  hope 
she's  not  what  Helen  calls  a  bolshevixen." 

There  was  nothing  bolshevik  about  a  glittering 
limousine  that  drew  up  at  the  corner  of  Gissing 
and  Swinburne  streets  early  that  afternoon.  A 
chauffeur  in  green  livery  opened  the  door,  lifted 
out  a  suitcase  of  beautiful  brown  leather,  and 
gave  a  respectful  hand  to  the  vision  that  emerged 
from  depths  of  lilac-coloured  upholstery. 

"Where  do  you  want  me  to  carry  the  bag,  miss?" 

"This  is  the  bitter  parting,"  replied  Miss 
Titania.  "I  don't  want  you  to  know  my  address, 
Edwards.  Some  of  my  mad  friends  might  worm 
it  out  of  you,  and  I  don't  want  them  coming  down 
and  bothering  me.  I  am  going  to  be  very  busy 
with  literature.  I'll  walk  the  rest  of  the  way." 

Edwards  saluted  with  a  grin — he  worshipped 
the  original  young  heiress — and  returned  to  his 
wheel. 

"There's  one  thing  I  want  you  to  do  for  me," 


66  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

said  Titania.  "Call  up  my  father  and  tell  him 
I'm  on  the  job." 

"Yes,  miss,"  said  Ed  wards,  who  would  have  run 
the  limousine  into  a  government  motor  truck  if  she 
had  ordered  it. 

Miss  Chapman's  small  gloved  hand  descended 
into  an  interesting  purse  that  was  cuffed  to  her 
wrist  with  a  bright  little  chain.  She  drew  out 
a  nickel — it  was  characteristic  of  her  that  it  was  a 
very  bright  and  engaging  looking  nickel — and 
handed  it  gravely  to  her  charioteer.  Equally 
gravely  he  saluted,  and  the  car,  after  moving 
through  certain  dignified  arcs,  swam  swiftly  away 
down  Thackeray  Boulevard. 

Titania,  after  making  sure  that  Edwards  was 
out  of  sight,  turned  up  Gissing  Street  with  a 
fluent  pace  and  an  observant  eye.  A  small  boy 
cried,  "Carry  your  bag,  lady?"  and  she  was 
about  to  agree,  but  then  remembered  that  she 
was  now  engaged  at  ten  dollars  a  week  and  waved 
him  away.  Our  readers  would  feel  a  justifiable 
grudge  if  we  did  not  attempt  a  description  of 
the  young  lady,  and  we  will  employ  the  few 
blocks  of  her  course  along  Gissing  Street  for  this 
purpose. 

Walking  behind  her,  the  observer,  by  the  time 
she  had  reached  Clemens  Place,  would  have  seen 
that  she  was  faultlessly  tailored  in  genial  tweeds; 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          67 

that  her  small  brown  boots  were  sheltered  by  spats 
of  that  pale  tan  complexion  exhibited  by  Pullman 
porters  on  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad;  that  her 
person  was  both  slender  and  vigorous;  that  her 
shoulders  were  carrying  a  sumptuous  fur  of  the 
colour  described  by  the  trade  as  nutria,  or  possibly 
opal  smoke.  The  word  chinchilla  would  have  oc- 
curred irresistibly  to  this  observer  from  behind; 
he  might  also,  if  he  were  the  father  of  a  family, 
have  had  a  fleeting  vision  of  many  autographed 
stubs  in  a  check  book.  The  general  impression 
that  he  would  have  retained,  had  he  turned  aside 
at  Clemens  Place,  would  be  "expensive,  but  worth 
the  expense." 

It  is  more  likely,  however,  that  the  student  of 
phenomena  would  have  continued  along  Gissing 
Street  to  the  next  corner,  being  that  of  Hazlitt 
Street.  Taking  advantage  of  opportunity,  he 
would  overtake  the  lady  on  the  pavement,  with  a 
secret,  sidelong  glance.  If  he  were  wise,  he  would 
pass  her  on  the  right  side  where  her  tilted  bonnet 
permitted  a  wider  angle  of  vision.  He  would 
catch  a  glimpse  of  cheek  and  chin  belonging  to  the 
category  known  (and  rightly)  as  adorable;  hair 
that  held  sunlight  through  the  dullest  day;  even  a 
small  platinum  wrist  watch  that  might  pardonably 
be  excused,  in  its  exhilarating  career,  for  beating 
a  trifle  fast.  Among  the  greyish  furs  he  would 


68  TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

note  a  bunch  of  such  violets  as  never  bloom  in 
the  crude  springtime,  but  reserve  themselves  for 
November  and  the  plate  glass  windows  of  Fifth 
Avenue. 

It  is  probable  that  whatever  the  errand  of  this 
spectator  he  would  have  continued  along  Gissing 
Street  a  few  paces  farther.  Then,  with  calculated 
innocence,  he  would  have  halted  halfway  up  the 
block  that  leads  to  the  Wordsworth  Avenue  "L," 
and  looked  backward  with  carefully  simulated 
irresolution,  as  though  considering  some  forgotten 
matter.  With  apparently  unseeing  eyes  he  would 
have  scanned  the  bright  pedestrian,  and  caught  the 
full  impact  of  her  rich  blue  gaze.  He  would  have 
seen  a  small  resolute  face  rather  vivacious  in  effect, 
yet  with  a  quaint  pathos  of  youth  and  eagerness. 
He  would  have  noted  the  cheeks  lit  with  excitement 
and  rapid  movement  in  the  bracing  air.  He  would 
certainly  have  noted  the  delicate  contrast  of  the 
fur  of  the  wild  nutria  with  the  soft  V  of  her  bare 
throat.  Then,  to  his  surprise,  he  would  have  seen 
this  attractive  person  stop,  examine  her  surround- 
ings, and  run  down  some  steps  into  a  rather  dingy- 
looking  second-hand  bookshop.  He  would  have 
gone  about  his  affairs  with  a  new  and  surprised 
conviction  that  the  Almighty  had  the  borough  of 
Brooklyn  under  His  especial  care. 

Roger,  who  had  conceived  a  notion  of  some 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          69 

rather  peevish  foundling  of  the  Ritz-Carlton  lob- 
bies and  Central  Park  riding  academies,  was 
agreeably  amazed  by  the  sweet  simplicity  of  the 
young  lady. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Mifflin?"  she  said,  as  he  advanced 
all  agog  from  his  smoky  corner. 

"Miss  Chapman?"  he  replied,  talcing  her 
bag.  "Helen!"  he  called.  "Miss  Titania  is 
hetre." 

She  looked  about  the  sombre  alcoves  of  the  shop. 
"I  do  think  it's  adorable  of  you  to  take  me  in," 
she  said.  "Dad  has  told  me  so  much  about  you. 
He  says  I'm  impossible.  I  suppose  this  is  the 
literature  he  talks  about.  I  want  to  know  all 
about  it." 

"And  here's  Bock!"  she  cried.  "Dad  says  he's 
the  greatest  dog  in  the  world,  named  after  Botti- 
celli or  somebody.  I've  brought  him  a  present. 
It's  in  my  bag.  Nice  old  Bocky ! " 

Bock,  who  was  unaccustomed  to  spats,  was 
examining  them  after  his  own  fashion. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mifflin.  "We  are 
delighted  to  see  you.  I  hope  you'll  be  happy 
with  us,  but  I  rather  doubt  it.  Mr.  Mifflin  is 
a  hard  man  to  get  along  with." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  of  it!"  cried  Titania.  "I  mean, 
I'm  sure  I  shall  be  happy!  You  mustn't  believe 
a  word  of  what  Dad  says  about  me.  I'm  crazy 


70  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

about  books.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  bear  to 
sell  them.  I  brought  these  violets  for  you,  Mrs. 
Mifflin." 

"How  perfectly  sweet  of  you,"  said  Helen, 
captivated  already.  "Come  along,  we'll  put 
them  right  in  water.  I'll  show  you  your  room." 

Roger  heard  them  moving  about  overhead. 
It  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  the  shop  was 
rather  a  dingy  place  for  a  young  girl.  "I  wish 
I  had  thought  to  get  in  a  cash  register,"  he 
mused.  "She'll  think  I'm  terribly  unbusiness- 
like." 

"Now,"  said  Mrs.  Mifflin,  as  she  and  Titania 
came  downstairs  again,  "  I'm  making  some  pastry, 
so  I'm  going  to  turn  you  over  to  your  employer. 
He  can  show  you  round  the  shop  and  tell  you 
where  all  the  books  are." 

"Before  we  begin,"  said  Titania,  "just  let  me 
give  Bock  his  present."  She  showed  a  large 
package  of  tissue  paper  and,  unwinding  innumer- 
able layers,  finally  disclosed  a  stalwart  bone. 
"I  was  lunching  at  Sherry's,  and  I  made  the 
head  waiter  give  me  this.  He  was  awfully 
amused." 

"Come  along  into  the  kitchen  and  give  it  to 
him,"  said  Helen.  "He'll  be  your  friend  for  life." 

"What  an  adorable  kennel!"  cried  Titania, 
when  she  saw  the  remodelled  packing-case  that 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          71 

served  Bock  as  a  retreat.  The  bookseller's  in- 
genious carpentry  had  built  it  into  the  similitude 
of  a  Carnegie  library,  with  the  sign  READING- 
ROOM  over  the  door;  and  he  had  painted  imitation 
book-shelves  along  the  interior. 

"You'll  get  used  to  Mr.  Mifflin  after  a  while," 
said  Helen  amusedly.  "He  spent  all  one  winter 
getting  that  kennel  fixed  to  his  liking.  You  might 
have  thought  he  was  going  to  live  in  it  instead  of 
Bock.  All  the  titles  that  he  painted  in  there  are 
books  that  have  dogs  in  them,  and  a  lot  of  them 
he  made  up." 

Titania  insisted  on  getting  down  to  peer 
inside.  Bock  was  much  flattered  at  this  atten- 
tion from  the  new  planet  that  had  swum  into 
his  kennel. 

"Gracious!"  she  said,  "here's  'The  Rubaiyat 
of  Omar  Canine'.  I  do  think  that's  clever!" 

"Oh,  there  are  a  lot  more,"  said  Helen.  "The 
works  of  Bonar  Law,  and  Bohn's  'Classics,'  and 
'Catechisms  on  Dogma'  and  goodness  knows  what. 
If  Roger  paid  half  as  much  attention  to  business 
as  he  does  to  jokes  of  that  sort,  we'd  be  rich. 
Now,  you  run  along  and  have  a  look  at  the 
shop." 

Titania  found  the  bookseller  at  his  desk. 
"Here  I  am,  Mr.  Mifflin,"  she  said.  "See,  I 
brought  a  nice  sharp  pencil  along  with  me  to 


72  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

make  out  sales  slips.  I've  been  practicing 
sticking  it  in  my  hair.  I  can  do  it  quite  nicely 
now.  I  hope  you  have  some  of  those  big  red 
books  with  all  the  carbon  paper  in  them  and 
everything.  I've  been  watching  the  girls  up 
at  Lord  and  Taylor's  make  them  out,  and  I 
think  they're  fascinating.  And  you  must  teach 
me  to  run  the  elevator.  I'm  awfully  keen  about 
elevators." 

"Bless  me,"  said  Roger,  "You'll  find  this  very 
different  from  Lord  and  Taylor's!  We  haven't 
any  elevators,  or  any  sales  slips,  or  even  a  cash 
register.  We  don't  wait  on  customers  unless 
they  ask  us  to.  They  come  in  and  browse  round, 
and  if  they  find  anything  they  want  they  come 
back  here  to  my  desk  and  ask  about  it.  The  price 
is  marked  in  every  book  in  red  pencil.  The  cash- 
box  is  here  on  this  shelf.  This  is  the  key  hanging 
on  this  little  hook.  I  enter  each  sale  in  this  ledger. 
When  you  sell  a  book  you  must  write  it  down  here, 
and  the  price  paid  for  it." 

"But  suppose  it's  charged?"  said  Titania. 

"No  charge  accounts.  Everything  is  cash. 
If  someone  comes  in  to  sell  books,  you  must  refer 
him  to  me.  You  mustn't  be  surprised  to  see 
people  drop  in  here  and  spend  several  hours  read- 
ing. Lots  of  them  look  on  this  as  a  kind  of  club. 
I  hope  you  don't  mind  the  smell  of  tobacco, 


TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          73 

for  almost  all  the  men  that  come  here  smoke  in 
the  shop.  You  see,  I  put  ash  trays  around  for 
them." 

"  I  love  tobacco  smell,"  said  Titania.  " Daddy's 
library  at  home  smells  something  like  this,  but 
not  quite  so  strong.  And  I  want  to  see  the  worms, 
bookworms  you  know.  Daddy  said  you  had  lots 
of  them." 

"You'll  see  them,  all  right,"  said  Roger,  chuck- 
ling. "They  come  in  and  out.  To-morrow  I'll 
show  you  how  my  stock  is  arranged.  It'll  take 
you  quite  a  while  to  get  familiar  with  it.  Until 
then  I  just  want  you  to  poke  around  and  see 
what  there  is,  until  you  know  the  shelves  so  well 
you  could  put  your  hand  on  any  given  book  in 
the  dark.  That's  a  game  my  wife  and  I  used  to 
play.  We  would  turn  off  all  the  lights  at  night, 
and  I  would  call  out  the  title  of  a  book  and  see 
how  near  she  could  come  to  finding  it.  Then  I 
would  take  a  turn.  "When  we  came  more  than 
six  inches  away  from  it  we  would  have  to  pay  a 
forfeit.  It's  great  fun." 

"What  larks  we'll  have,"  cried  Titania.  "I 
do  think  this  is  a  cunning  place!" 

"This  is  the  bulletin  board,  where  I  put  up 
notices  about  books  that  interest  me.  Here's  a 
card  I've  just  been  writing." 

Roger  drewfrom  his  pocketa  square  of  cardboard 


74  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

and  affixed  it  to  the  board  with  a  thumbtack. 
Titania  read: 


THE  BOOK  THAT  SHOULD  HAVE  PREVENTED  THE  WAR 

Now  that  the  fighting  is  over  is  a  good  time  to  read 
Thomas  Hardy's  The  Dynasts.  I  don't  want  to  sell  it, 
because  it  is  one  of  the  greatest  treasures  I  own.  But 
if  any  one  will  guarantee  to  read  all  three  volumes,  and 
let  them  sink  into  his  mind,  I'm  willing  to  lend  them. 

If  enough  thoughtful  Germans  had  read  The  Dynasts 
before  July,  1914,  there  would  have  been  no  war. 

If  every  delegate  to  the  Peace  Conference  could  be  made 
to  read  it  before  the  sessions  begin,  there  will  be  no  more 
wars. 

R.  MDTLIN. 


"Dear  me,"  said  Titania,  "Is  it  so  good  as  all 
that?  Perhaps  I'd  better  read  it." 

"It  is  so  good  that  if  I  knew  any  way  of  doing 
so  I'd  insist  on  Mr.  Wilson  reading  it  on  his  voyage 
to  France.  I  wish  I  could  get  it  onto  his  ship. 
My,  what  a  book!  It  makes  one  positively  ill 
with  pity  and  terror.  Sometimes  I  wake  up  at 
night  and  look  out  of  the  window  and  imagine  I 
hear  Hardy  laughing.  I  get  him  a  little  mixed 
up  with  the  Deity,  I  fear.  But  he's  a  bit  too  hard 
for  you  to  tackle." 

Titania  was  puzzled,  and  said  nothing.    But 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          75 

her  busy  mind  made  a  note  of  its  own:  Hardy, 
hard  to  read,  makes  one  ill,  try  it. 

"What  did  you  think  of  the  books  I  put  in  your 
room?"  said  Roger.  He  had  vowed  to  wait  until 
she  made  some  comment  unsolicited,  but  he  could 
not  restrain  himself. 

"In  my  room?"  she  said.  "Why,  I'm  sorry,  I 
never  noticed  them!" 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  DISAPPEARING  VOLUME 

WELL,  my  dear,"  said  Roger  after  supper 
that  evening,  "  I  think  perhaps  we  had 
better  introduce  Miss  Titania  to  our 
custom  of  reading  aloud." 

"Perhaps  it  would  bore  her?"  said  Helen. 
"You  know  it  isn't  everybody  that  likes  being 
read  to." 

"Oh,  I  should  love  it!"  exclaimed  Titania.  "I 
don't  think  anybody  ever  read  to  me,  that  is  not 
since  I  was  a  child." 

"Suppose  we  leave  you  to  look  after  the  shop," 
said  Helen  to  Roger,  in  a  teasing  mood,  "and  I'll 
take  Titania  out  to  the  movies.  I  think  Tarzan 
is  still  running." 

Whatever  private  impulses  Miss  Chapman 
may  have  felt,  she  saw  by  the  bookseller's  down- 
cast face  that  a  visit  to  Tarzan  would  break  his 
heart,  and  she  was  prompt  to  disclaim  any  taste 
for  the  screen  classic. 

"Dear  me,"  she  said;  "Tarzan — that's  all  that 
nature  stuff  by  John  Burroughs;  isn't  it?  Oh,( 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          77 

Mrs.  Miffiin,  I  think  it  would  be  very  tedious. 
Let's  have  Mr  Mifflin  read  to  us.  I'll  get  down 
my  knitting  bag." 

"You  mustn't  mind  being  interrupted,"  said 
Helen.  "When  anybody  rings  the  bell  Roger 
has  to  run  out  and  tend  the  shop." 

"You  must  let  me  do  it,"  said  Titania.  "I 
want  to  earn  my  wages,  you  know." 

"All  right,"  said  Mrs.  Mifflin;  "Roger,  you 
settle  Miss  Chapman  in  the  den  and  give  her  some- 
thing to  look  at  while  we  do  the  dishes." 

But  Roger  was  all  on  fire  to  begin  the  readLig. 
"Why  don't  we  postpone  the  dishes,"  he  said, 
"just  to  celebrate?" 

"Let  me  help,"  insisted  Titania.  "I  should 
think  washing  up  would  be  great  fun." 

"No,  no,  not  on  your  first  evening,"  said 
Helen.  "Mr.  Mifflin  and  I  will  finish  them  in  a 


So  Roger  poked  up  the  coal  fire  in  the  den,  dis- 
posed the  chairs,  and  gave  Titania  a  copy  of  Sartor 
Resartus  to  look  at.  He  then  vanished  into  the 
kitchen  with  his  wife,  whence  Titania  heard  the 
cheerful  clank  of  crockery  in  a  dishpan  and  the 
splashing  of  hot  water.  "The  best  thing  about 
washing  up,"  she  heard  Roger  say,  "is  that  it 
makes  one's  hands  so  clean,  a  novel  sensation  for  a 
second-hand  bookseller." 


78  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

She  gave  Sartor  Rcsartu*  what  is  graphically 
described  as  a  "once  over,"  and  then  seeing  the 
morning  Times  lying  on  the  table,  picked  it  up, 
as  she  had  not  read  it.  Her  eye  fell  upon  the 
column  headed 


LOST  AND  POUND 

Fifty  cents  an  agate  fine 


and  as  she  had  recently  lost  a  little  pearl  brooch, 
she  ran  hastily  through  it.  She  chuckled  a  little 
over 

LOST— Hotel 
mmcafeSted,! 

Then  she  saw  this: 

LOST— Cop?  of  Thomas  Carlo's  "Oliver  Cromwrft"  be- 
Street,  Brooklyn,  and  the  Octagon  Hotel    If 
Tuesday.  Dec.  3,  return  to  assistant  chef, 


Octagon  HoteL 

"Why,"  she  exclaimed,  "Gisstog  Street— that's 
here!  And  what  a  funny  kind  of  book  for  an 
assistant  chef  to  read.  No  wonder  their  lunches 
have  been  so  bad  lately!" 

When  Roger  and  Helen  rejoined  her  in  the  den 
a  few  minutes  later  she  showed  the  bookseller  the 
advertisement.  He  was  very  much  excited. 

"That's  a  funny  thing,"  he  said.  "There's 
something  queer  about  that  book.  Did  I  tell 


THE  H ACS  TED  BOOKSHOP  79 

you  about  it?  Last  Tuesday — I  know  it  was  then 
because  it  was  the  evening  young  Gilbert  was  here 
— a  man  with  a  beard  came  in  asking  for  it,  and 
it  wasn't  on  the  shelf.  Then  the  next  night, 
Wednesday,  I  was  up  very  late  writing,  and  fell 
asleep  at  my  desk.  I  must  have  left  the  front 
door  ajar,  because  I  was  waked  up  by  the  draught, 
and  when  I  went  to  close  the  door  I  saw  the  book 
sticking  out  a  little  beyond  the  others,  in  its  usual 
place.  And  last  night,  when  the  Corn  Cobs  were 
here,  I  went  out  to  look  up  a  quotation  in  it,  and 
it  was  gone  again." 

"Perhaps  the  assistant  chef  stole  it?"  said 
Titania.  . 

"But  if  so,  why  the  deuce  would  he  advertise 
having  done  so?"  asked  Roger. 

"Well,  if  he  did  steal  it,"  said  Helen,  "I 
wish  him  joy  of  it,  I  tried  to  read  it  once,  you 
talked  so  much  about  it,  and  I  found  it  dreadfully 
dull." 

"If  he  did  steal  ft,"  cried  the  bookseller,  "Fm 
perfectly  delighted.  It  shows  that  my  conten- 
tion is  right :  people  do  really  care  for  good  books. 
If  an  assistant  chef  is  so  fond  of  good  books  that 
he  has  to  steal  them,  the  world  is  safe  for 'democ- 
racy. Usually  the  only  books  any  one  wants  to 
steal  are  sheer  piffle,  like  Mating  Life  Worth 
Whik  by  Douglas  Fairbanks  or  Mother  Shipton's 


80  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

Book  of  Oracles.  I  don't  mind  a  man  stealing  books 
if  he  steals  good  ones! " 

"You  see  the  remarkable  principles  that  govern 
this  business,"  said  Helen  to  Titania.  They  sat 
down  by  the  fire  and  took  up  their  knitting  while 
the  bookseller  ran  out  to  see  if  the  volume  had  by 
any  chance  returned  to  his  shelves. 

"Is  it  there?"  said  Helen,  when  he  came  back. 

"No,"  said  Roger,  and  picked  up  the  advertise- 
ment again.  "I  wonder  why  he  wants  it  re- 
turned before  midnight  on  Tuesday?" 

"So  he  can  read  it  in  bed,  I  guess,"  said  Helen. 
"Perhaps  he  suffers  from  insomnia." 

"It's  a  darn  shame  he  lost  it  before  he  had  a 
chance  to  read  it.  I'd  like  to  have  known  what 
he  thought  of  it.  I've  got  a  great  mind  to  go  up 
and  call  on  him." 

"Charge  it  off  to  profit  and  loss  and  forget 
about  it,"  said  Helen.  "How  about  that  reading 
aloud?" 

Roger  ran  his  eye  along  his  private  shelves, 
and  pulled  down  a  well-worn  volume. 

"Now  that  Thanksgiving  is  past,"  he  said, 
"my  mind  always  turns  to  Christmas,  and  Christ- 
mas means  Charles  Dickens.  My  dear,  would  it 
bore  you  if  we  had  a  go  at  the  old  Christmas 
Stories?" 

Mrs.  Mifflin  held  up  her  hands  in  mock  dismay. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          81 

"He  reads  them  to  me  every  year  at  this  time," 
she  said  to  Titania.  "Still,  they're  worth  it.  I 
know  good  old  Mrs.  Lirriper  better  than  I  do 
most  of  my  friends." 

"What  is  it,  the  Christmas  Carol?  "  said  Titania. 
"We  had  to  read  that  in  school." 

"No,"  said  Roger;  "the  other  stories,  infinitely 
better.  Everybody  gets  the  Carol  dinned  into 
them  until  they're  weary  of  it,  but  no  one  nowa- 
days seems  to  read  the  others.  I  tell  you,  Christ- 
mas wouldn't  be  Christmas  to  me  if  I  didn't  read 
these  tales  over  again  every  year.  How  homesick 
they  make  one  for  the  good  old  days  of  real  inns 
and  real  beefsteak  and  real  ale  drawn  in  pewter. 
My  dears,  sometimes  when  I  am  reading  Dickens 
I  get  a  vision  of  rare  sirloin  with  floury  ^  boiled 
potatoes  and  plenty  of  horse-radish,  set  on  a 
shining  cloth  not  far  from  a  blaze  of  English 
coal " 

"He's  an  incorrigible  visionary,"  said  Mrs. 
Mifflin.  "To  hear  him  talk  you  might 'think  no 
one  had  had  a  square  meal  since  Dickens  died. 
You  might  think  that  all  landladies  died  with 
Mrs.  Lirriper." 

"Very  ungrateful  of  him,"  said  Titania.  "I'm 
sure  I  couldn't  ask  for  better  potatoes,  or  a  nicer 
hostess,  than  I've  found  in  Brooklyn." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Roger.  "You  are  right,  of 


82  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

course.  And  yet  something  went  out  of  the 
world  when  Victorian  England  vanished,  some- 
thing that  will  never  come  again.  Take  the  stage- 
coach drivers,  for  instance.  What  a  racy,  human 
type  they  were!  And  what  have  we  now  to  com- 
pare with  them?  Subway  guards?  Taxicab 
drivers?  I  have  hung  around  many  an  all-night 
lunchroom  to  hear  the  chauffeurs  talk.  But  they 
are  too  much  on  the  move,  you  can't  get  the  pic- 
ture of  them  the  way  Dickens  could  of  his  types. 
You  can't  catch  that  sort  of  thing  in  a  snapshot, 
you  know:  you  have  to  have  a  time  exposure. 
I'll  grant  you,  though,  that  lunchroom  food  is 
mighty  good.  The  best  place  to  eat  is  always  a 
counter  where  the  chauffeurs  congregate.  They 
get  awfully  hungry,  you  see,  driving  round  in  the 
cold,  and  when  they  want  food  they  want  it  hot 
and  tasty.  There's  a  little  hash-alley  called 
Frank's,  up  on  Broadway  near  77th,  where  I 
guess  the  ham  and  eggs  and  French  fried  is  as 
good  as  any  Mr.  Pickwick  ever  ate." 

"I  must  get  Edwards  to  take  me  there,"  said 
Titania.  "Edwards  is  our  chauffeur.  I've  been 
to  the  Ansonia  for  tea,  that's  near  there." 

"Better  keep  away,"  said  Helen.  "When 
Roger  comes  home  from  those  places  he  smells  so 
strong  of  onions  it  brings  tears  to  my  eyes." 

"We've  just  been  talking  about  an  assistant 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          83 

chef,"  said  Roger;  that  suggests  that  I  read  you 
Somebody's  Luggage,  which  is  all  about  a  head 
waiter.  I  have  often  wished  I  could  get  a  job  as 
a  waiter  or  a  bus  boy,  just  to  learn  if  there  really 
are  any  such  head  waiters  nowadays.  You  know 
there  are  all  sorts  of  jobs  I'd  like  to  have,  just  to 
fructify  my  knowledge  of  human  nature  and  find 
out  whether  life  is  really  as  good  as  literature. 
I'd  love  to  be  a  waiter,  a  barber,  a  floorwalker " 

"Roger,  my  dear,"  said  Helen,  "why  don't 
you  get  on  with  the  reading?  " 

Roger  knocked  out  his  pipe,  turned  Bock  out 
of  his  chair,  and  sat  down  with  infinite  relish  to 
read  the  memorable  character  sketch  of  Chris- 
topher, the  head  waiter,  which  is  dear  to  every 
lover  of  taverns.  "The  writer  of  these  humble 
lines  being  a  Waiter,"  he  began.  The  knitting 
needles  flashed  with  diligence,  and  the  dog  by  the 
fender  stretched  himself  out  in  the  luxuriant 
vacancy  of  mind  only  known  to  dogs  surrounded 
by  a  happy  group  of  their  friends.  And  Roger, 
enjoying  himself  enormously,  and  particularly 
pleased  by  the  chuckles  of  his  audience,  was  ap- 
proaching the  ever-delightful  items  of  the  coffee- 
room  bill  which  is  to  be  found  about  ten  pages 
on  in  the  first  chapter — how  sad  it  is  that  hotel 
bills  are  not  so  rendered  in  these  times — when  the 
bell  in  the  shop  clanged.  Picking  up  his  pipe  and 


84  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

matchbox,  and  grumbling  "It's  always  the  way," 
he  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

He  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  that  his 
caller  was  the  young  advertising  man,  Aubrey 
Gilbert. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "I've  been  saving  some- 
thing for  you.  It's  a  quotation  from  Joseph 
Conrad  about  advertising." 

"Good  enough,"  said  Aubrey.  "And  I've  got 
something  for  you.  You  were  so  nice  to  me  the 
other  evening  I  took  the  liberty  of  bringing  you 
round  some  tobacco.  Here's  a  tin  of  Blue-Eyed 
Mixture,  it's  my  favourite.  I  hope  you'll  like 
it." 

"Bully  for  you.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  let  you  off 
the  Conrad  quotation  since  you're  so  kind." 

"Not  a  bit.     I  suppose  it's  a  knock.     Shoot!" 

The  bookseller  led  the  way  back  to  his 
desk,  where  he  rummaged  among  the  litter  and 
finally  found  a  scrap  of  paper  on  which  he  had 
written: 

Being  myself  animated  by  feelings  of  affection  toward  my 
fellowmen,  I  am  saddened  by  the  modern  system  of  adver- 
tising. Whatever  evidence  it  offers  of  enterprise,  ingenuity, 
impudence,  and  resource  in  certain  individuals,  it  proves  to 
my  mind  the  wide  prevalence  of  that  form  of  mental  degrada- 
tion which  is  called  gullibility. 

JOSEPH  CONHAD. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP  85 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  said  Roger. 
"You'll  find  that  in  the  story  called  The  An- 
archist." 

"I  think  less  than  nothing  of  it,"  said  Aubrey. 
"As  your  friend  Don  Marquis  observed  the  other 
evening,  an  idea  isn't  always  to  be  blamed  for  the 
people  who  believe  in  it.  Mr.  Conrad  has  been 
reading  some  quack  ads,  that's  all.  Because  there 
are  fake  ads,  that  doesn't  condemn  the  principle  of 
Publicity.  But  look  here,  what  I  really  came 
round  to  see  you  for  is  to  show  you"  this.  It  was 
in  the  Times  this  morning." 

He  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  clipping  of  the 
LOST  insertion  to  which  Roger's  attention  had 
already  been  drawn. 

"Yes,  I've  just  seen  it,"  said  Roger.  "1 
missed  the  book  from  my  shelves,  and  I  believe 
someone  must  have  stolen  it." 

"Well,  now,  I  want  to  tell  you  something," 
said  Aubrey.  "To-night  I  had  dinner  at  the 
Octagon  with  Mr.  Chapman." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Roger.  "You  know  his 
daughter's  here  now." 

"So  he  told  me.  It's  rather  interesting  how 
it  all  works  out.  You  see,  after  you  told  me  the 
other  day  that  Miss  Chapman  was  coming  to  work 
for  you,  that  gave  me  an  idea.  I  knew  her  father 
would  be  specially  interested  in  Brooklyn,  on  that 


86  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

account,  and  it  suggested  to  me  an  idea  for  a 
window-display  campaign  here  in  Brooklyn  for 
the  Daintybits  Products.  You  know  we  handle 
all  his  sales  promotion  campaigns.  Of  course 
I  didn't  let  on  that  I  knew  about  his  daughter 
coming  over  here,  but  he  told  me  about  it  himself 
in  the  course  of  our  talk.  Well,  here's  what  I'm 
getting  at.  We  had  dinner  in  the  Czecho-Slovak 
Grill,  up  on  the  fourteenth  floor,  and  going  up  in 
the  elevator  I  saw  a  man  in  a  chef's  uniform  carry- 
ing a  book.  I  looked  over  his  shoulder  to  see 
what  it  was.  I  thought  of  course  it  would  be  a 
cook  book.  It  was  a  copy  of  Oliver  Cromwett" 

"So  he  found  it  again,  eh?  I  must  go  and  have 
a  talk  with  that  chap.  If  he's  a  Carlyle  fan  I'd 
like  to  know  him." 

"Wait  a  minute.  I  had  seen  the  LOST  ad  in 
the  paper  this  morning,  because  I  always  look 
over  that  column.  Often  it  gives  me  ideas  for 
advertising  stunts.  If  you  keep  an  eye  on  the 
things  people  are  anxious  to  get  back,  you  know 
what  they  really  prize,  and  if  you  know  what  they 
prize  you  can  get  a  line  on  what  goods  ought  to 
be  advertised  more  extensively.  This  was  the 
first  time  I  had  ever  noticed  a  LOST  ad  for  a  book, 
so  I  thought  to  myself  "the  book  business  is  com- 
ing up."  Well,  when  I  saw  the  chef  with  the 
book  in  his  hand,  I  said  to  him  jokingly  "I  see 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          87 

you  found  it  again."  He  was  a  foreign-looking 
fellow,  with  a  big  beard,  which  is  unusual  for  a 
chef,  because  I  suppose  it's  likely  to  get  in  the 
soup.  He  looked  at  me  as  though  I'd  run  a  carv- 
ing knife  into  him,  almost  scared  me  the  way  he 
looked.  "Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  and  shoved  the 
book  out  of  sight  under  his  arm.  He  seemed 
half  angry  and  half  frightened,  so  I  thought  may- 
be he  had  no  right  to  be  riding  in  the  passenger 
elevator  and  was  scared  someone  would  report 
him  to  the  manager.  Just  as  we  were  getting  to 
the  fourteenth  floor  I  said  to  him  in  a  whisper, 
"It's  all  right,  old  chap,  I'm  not  going  to  report 
you."  I  give  you  my  word  he  looked  more  scared 
than  before.  He  went  quite  white.  I  got  off  at 
the  fourteenth,  and  he  followed  me  out.  I  thought 
he  was  going  to  speak  to  me,  but  Mr.  Chapman 
was  there  in  the  lobby,  and  he  didn't  have  a  chance. 
But  I  noticed  that  he  watched  me  into  the  grill 
room  as  though  I  was  his  last  chance  of  salvation." 

"I  guess  the  poor  devil  was  scared  you'd  report 
him  to  the  police  for  stealing  the  book,"  said 
Roger.  "  Never  mind,  let  him  have  it." 

"Did  he  steal  it?" 

"I  haven't  a  notion.  But  somebody  did,  be- 
cause it  disappeared  from  here." 

"Well,  now,  wait  a  minute.  Here's  the  queer 
part  of  it.  I  didn't  think  anything  more  about 


88  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP  4 

it,  except  that  it  was  ajunny  coincidence  my  seeing 
him  after  having  noticed  that  ad  in  the  paper. 
I  had  a  long  talk  with  Mr.  Chapman,  and  we  dis- 
cussed some  plans  for  a  prune  and  Saratoga  chip 
campaign,  and  I  showed  him  some  suggested 
copy  I  had  prepared.  Then  he  told  me  about  his 
daughter,  and  I  let  on  that  I  knew  you.  I  left 
the  Octagon  about  eight  o'clock,  and  I  thought 
I'd  run  over  here  on  the  subway  just  to  show  you 
the  LOST  notice  and  give  you  this  tobacco. 
And  when  I  got  off  the  subway  at  Atlantic  Avenue, 
who  should  I  see  but  friend  chef  again.  He  got 
off  the  same  train  I  did.  He  had  on  civilian 
clothes  then,  of  course,  and  when  he  was  out  of 
his  white  uniform  and  pancake  hat  I  recognized 
him  right  off.  Who  do  you  suppose  it  was?" 

"Can't  imagine,"  said  Roger,  highly  interested 
by  this  time. 

"Why,  the  professor  looking  guy  who  came  in  to 
ask  for  the  book  the  first  night  I  was  here." 

"Humph!  Well,  he  must  be  keen  about 
Carlyle,  because  he  was  horribly  disappointed 
that  evening  when  he  asked  for  the  book  and  I 
couldn't  find  it.  I  remember  how  he  insisted  that 
I  must  have  it,  and  I  hunted  all  through  the 
History  shelves  to  make  sure  it  hadn't  got  mis- 
placed. He  said  that  some  friend  of  his  had  seen  it 
here,  and  he  had  come  right  round  to  buy  it.  I  told 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          89 

him  he  could  certainly  get  a  copy  at  the  Public 
Library,  and  he  said  that  wouldn't  do  at  all." 

"Well,  I  think  he's  nuts,"  said  Aubrey,  "be- 
cause I'm  damn  sure  he  followed  me  down  the 
street  after  I  left  the  subway.  I  stopped  in  at 
the  drug  store  on  the  corner  to  get  some  matches, 
and  when  I  came  out,  there  he  was  underneath 
the  lamp-post." 

"If  it  was  a  modern  author,  instead  of  Carlyle," 
said  Roger,  "I'd  say  it  was  some  publicity  stunt 
pulled  off  by  the  publishers.  You  know  they  go 
to  all  manner  of  queer  dodges  to  get  an  author's 
name  in  print.  But  Carlyle's  copyrights  expired 
long  ago,  so  I  don't  see  the  game." 

"I  guess  he's  picketing  your  place  to  try  and 
steal  the  formula  for  eggs  Samuel  Butler,'9  said 
Aubrey,  and  they  both  laughed.  • 

"You'd  better  come  in  and  meet  my  wife  and 
Miss  Chapman,"  said  Roger.  The  young  man 
made  some  feeble  demur,  but  it  was  obvious  to 
the  bookseller  that  he  was  vastly  elated  at  the 
idea  of  making  Miss  Chapman's  acquaintance. 

"Here's  a  friend  of  mine,"  said  Roger,  ushering 
Aubrey  into  the  little  room  where  Helen  and  Ti- 
tania  were  still  sitting  by  the  fire.  "Mrs.  Mifflin, 
Mr.  Aubrey  Gilbert,  Miss  Chapman,  Mr.  Gilbert." 

Aubrey  was  vaguely  aware  of  the  rows  of  books, 
of  the  shining  coals,  of  the  buxom  hostess  and  the 


90  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

friendly  terrier;  but  with  the  intense  focus  of  an 
intelligent  young  male  mind  these  were  all  merely 
appurtenances  to  the  congenial  spectacle  of  the 
employee.  How  quickly  a  young  man's  senses 
assemble  and  assimilate  the  data  that  are  really 
relevant!  Without  seeming  even  to  look  in  that 
direction  he  had  performed  the  most  amazing  feat 
of  lightning  calculation  known  to  the  human 
faculties.  He  had  added  up  all  the  young  ladies 
of  his  acquaintance,  and  found  the  sum  total  less 
than  the  girl  before  him.  He  had  subtracted 
the  new  phenomenon  from  the  universe  as  he 
knew  it,  including  the  solar  system  and  the  ad- 
vertising business,  and  found  the  remainder  a 
minus  quantity.  He  had  multiplied  the  contents 
of  his  intellect  by  a  factor  he  had  no  reason 
to  assume  "constant,"  and  was  startled  at  what 
teachers  call  (I  believe)  the  "product."  And  he 
had  divided  what  was  in  the  left-hand  armchair 
into  his  own  career,  and  found  no  room  for  a 
quotient.  All  of  which  transpired  in  the  length 
of  time  necessary  for  Roger  to  push  forward 
another  chair. 

With  the  politeness  desirable  in  a  well-bred 
youth,  Aubrey's  first  instinct  was  to  make  himself 
square  with  the  hostess.  Resolutely  he  occluded 
blue  eyes,  silk  shirtwaist,  and  admirable  chin 
from  his  mental  vision. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          91 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you  to  let  me  come  in," 
he  said  to  Mrs.  Mifflin.  "I  was  here  the  other 
evening  and  Mr.  Mifflin  insisted  on  my  staying 
to  supper  with  him." 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Helen.  "  Roger 
told  me  about  you.  I  hope  he  didn't  poison  you 
with  any  of  his  outlandish  dishes.  Wait  till  he 
tries  you  with  brandied  peaches  a  la  Harold  Bell 
Wright." 

Aubrey  uttered  some  genial  reassurance,  still 
making  the  supreme  sacrifice  of  keeping  his  eyes 
away  from  where  (he  felt)  they  belonged. 

"Mr.  Gilbert  has  just  had  a  queer  experience," 
said  Roger.  "  Tell  them  about  it." 

In  the  most  reckless  way,  Aubrey  permitted 
himself  to  be  impaled  upon  a  direct  and  interested 
flash  of  blue  lightning.  "  I  was  having  dinner  with 
your  father  at  the  Octagon." 

The  high  tension  voltage  of  that  bright  blue  cur- 
rent felt  like  ohm  sweet  ohm,  but  Aubrey  dared  not 
risk  too  much  of  it  at  once.  Fearing  to  blow  out 
a  fuse,  he  turned  in  panic  to  Mrs.  Mifflin.  "You 
see,"  he  explained,  "I  write  a  good  deal  of  Mr. 
Chapman's  advertising  for  him.  We  had  an 
appointment  to  discuss  some  business  matters. 
We're  planning  a  big  barrage  on  prunes." 

"Dad  works  much  too  hard,  don't  you  think?" 
said  Titania. 


92  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

Aubrey  welcomed  this  as  a  pleasant  avenue 
of  discussion  leading  into  the  parkland  of  Miss 
Chapman's  family  affairs;  but  Roger  insisted 
on  his  telling  the  story  of  the  chef  and  the  copy 
of  Cromwell. 

"And  he  followed  you  here?"  exclaimed  Titania. 
"  What  fun !  I  had  no  idea  the  book  business  was 
so  exciting." 

"Better  lock  the  door  to-night,  Roger,"  said 
Mrs.  Mifflin,  "or  he  may  walk  off  with  a  set  of 
the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica." 

"Why,  my  dear,"  said  Roger,  "I  think  this  is 
grand  news.  Here's  a  man,  in  a  humble  walk  of 
lif  e,  so  keen  about  good  books  that  he  even  pickets 
a  bookstore  on  the  chance  of  swiping  some.  It's 
the  most  encouraging  thing  I've  ever  heard  of. 
I  must  write  to1  the  Publishers'  Weekly  about  it." 

"Well,"  said  Aubrey,  "you  mustn't  let  me 
interrupt  your  little  party." 

"You're  not  interrupting,"  said  Roger.  "We 
were  only  reading  aloud.  Do  you  know  Dickens' 
Christmas  Stories  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't." 

"Suppose  we  go  on  reading,  shall  we?" 

"Please  do." 

"Yes,  do  go  on,"  said  Titania.  "Mr.  Mifflin 
was  just  reading  about  a  most  adorable  head  waiter 
in  a  London  chop  house." 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          93 

Aubrey  begged  permission  to  light  his  pipe,  and 
Roger  picked  up  the  book.  "But  before  we 
read  the  items  of  the  coffee-room  bill,"  he  said, 
"I  think  it  only  right  that  we  should  have  a 
little  refreshment.  This  passage  should  never 
be  read  without  something  to  accompany  it. 
My  dear,  what  do  you  say  to  a  glass  of  sherry 
all  round?" 

"It  is  sad  to  have  to  confess  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Mifflin  to  Titania,  "Mr.  Mifflin  can  never  read 
Dickens  without  having  something  to  drink.  I 
think  the  sale  of  Dickens  will  fall  off  terribly  when 
prohibition  comes  in." 

"I  once  took  the  trouble  to  compile  a  list  of  the 
amount  of  liquor  drunk  in  Dickens'  works,"  said 
Roger,  "and  I  assure  you  the  total  was  astound- 
ing: 7,000  hogsheads,  I  believe  it  was.  Calcula- 
tions of  that  sort  are  great  fun.  I  have  always 
intended  to  write  a  little  essay  on  the  rainstorms 
in  the  stories  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  You 
see  R.  L.  S.  was  a  Scot,  and  well  acquainted  with 
wet  weather.  Excuse  me  a  moment,  I'll  just  run 
down  cellar  and  get  up  a  bottle." 

Roger  left  the  room,  and  they  heard  his  steps 
passing  down  into  the  cellar.  Bock,  after  the 
manner  of  dogs,  followed  him.  The  smells  of 
cellars  are  a  rare  treat  to  dogs,  especially  ancient 
Brooklyn  cellars  which  have  a  cachet  all  their 


94  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

own.  The  cellar  of  the  Haunted  Bookshop  was, 
to  Bock,  a  fascinating  place,  illuminated  by  a 
warm  glow  from  the  furnace,  and  piled  high  with 
split  packing-cases  which  Roger  used  as  kindling. 
From  below  came  the  rasp  of  a  shovel  among  coal, 
and  the  clear,  musical  slither  as  the  lumps  were 
thrown  from  the  iron  scoop  onto  the  fire.  Just 
then  the  bell  rang  in  the  shop. 

"Let  me  go,"  said  Titania,  jumping  up. 

"Can't  I?"  said  Aubrey. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Mrs.  Mifflin,  laying  down  her 
knitting.  "Neither  of  you  knows  anything  about 
the  stock.  Sit  down  and  be  comfortable.  I'll 
be  right  back." 

Aubrey  and  Titania  looked  at  each  other  with  a 
touch  of  embarrassment. 

"Your  father  sent  you  his — his  kind  regards," 
said  Aubrey.  That  was  not  what  he  had  intended 
to  say,  but  somehow  he  could  not  utter  the  word. 
"He  said  not  to  read  all  the  books  at  once." 

Titania  laughed.  "How  funny  that  you  should 
run  into  him  just  when  you  were  coming  here. 
He's  a  duck,  isn't  he?" 

"Well,  you  see  I  only  know  him  in  a  business 
way,  but  he  certainly  is  a  corker.  He  believes  in 
advertising,  too." 

"Are  you  crazy  about  books?" 

"Why,  I  never  really  had  very  much  to  do  with 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP  95 

them.     I'm  afraid  you'll  think  I'm  terribly  ignor- 

cLXl  u 

"Not  at  all.  I'm  awfully  glad  to  meet  someone 
who  doesn't  think  it's  a  crime  not  to  have  read 
all  the  books  there  are." 

"This  is  a  queer  kind  of  place,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  it's  a  funny  idea  to  call  it  the  Haunted 
Bookshop.  I  wonder  what  it  means." 

"Mr.  Mifflin  told  me  it  meant  haunted  by  the 
ghosts  of  great  literature.  I  hope  they  won't 
annoy  you.  The  ghost  of  Thomas  Carlyle  seems 
to  be  pretty  active." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  ghosts,"  said  Titania. 

Aubrey  gazed  at  the  fire.  He  wanted  to  say 
that  he  intended  from  now  on  to  do  a  little  haunt- 
ing on  his  own  account  but  he  did  not  know  just 
how  to  break  it  gently.  And  then  Roger  returned 
from  the  cellar  with  the  bottle  of  sherry.  As  he 
was  uncorking  it,  they  heard  the  shop  door  close, 
and  Mrs.  Mifflin  came  in. 

"Well,  Roger,"  she  said;  "if  you  think  so  much 
of  your  old  Cromwell,  you'd  better  keep  it  in  here. 
Here  it  is."  She  laid  the  book  on  the  table. 

"For  the  love  of  Mike!"  exclaimed  Roger. 
"Who  brought  it  back?" 

"I  guess  it  was  your  friend  the  assistant  chef," 
said  Mrs.  Mifflin.  "Anyway,  he  had  a  beard 
like  a  Christmas  tree.  He  was  mighty  polite. 


96  THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

He  said  he  was  terribly  absent  minded,  and  that 
the  other  day  he  was  in  here  looking  at  some  books 
and  just  walked  off  with  it  without  knowing  what 
he  was  doing.  He  offered  to  pay  for  the  trouble 
he  had  caused,  but  of  course  I  wouldn't  let  him. 
I  asked  if  he  wanted  to  see  you,  but  he  said  he  was 
in  a  hurry." 

"I'm  almost  disappointed,"  said  Roger.  "I 
thought  that  I  had  turned  up  a  real  booklover. 
Here  we  are,  all  hands  drink  the  health  of  Mr. 
Thomas  Carlyle." 

The  toast  was  drunk,  and  they  settled  them- 
selves in  their  chairs. 

"And  here's  to  the  new  employee,"  said  Helen. 

This  also  was  dispatched,  Aubrey  draining  his 
glass  with  a  zeal  which  did  not  escape  Miss  Chap- 
man's discerning  eye.  Roger  then  put  out  his 
hand  for  the  Dickens.  But  first  he  picked  up  his 
beloved  Cromwell.  He  looked  at  it  carefully,  and 
then  held  the  volume  close  to  the  light. 

"The  mystery's  not  over  yet,"  he  said.  "It's 
been  rebound.  This  isn't  the  original  binding." 

"Are  you  sure?"  said  Helen  in  surprise.  "It 
looks  the  same." 

"The  binding  has  been  cleverly  imitated,  but 
it  can't  fool  me.  In  the  first  place,  there  was  a 
rubbed  corner  at  the  top;  and  there  was  an  ink 
stain  on  one  of  the  end  papers." 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          97 

"There's  still  a  stain  there,"  said  Aubrey,  look- 
ing over  his  shoulder. 

"Yes,  but  not  the  same  stain.  I've  had  that 
book  long  enough  to  know  it  by  heart.  Now 
what  the  deuce  would  that  lunatic  want  to  have 
it  rebound  for?" 

"Goodness  gracious,"  said  Helen,  "put  it  away 
and  forget  about  it.  We'll  all  be  dreaming  about 
Carlyle  if  you're  not  careful." 


CHAPTER  V 

AUBREY  WALKS  PART  WAY  HOME— AND 
RIDES  THE  REST  OF  THE  WAY 

IT  WAS  a  cold,  clear  night  as  Mr.  Aubrey  Gil- 
bert left  the  Haunted  Bookshop  that  even- 
ing, and  set  out  to  walk  homeward.     Without 
making  a  very  conscious  choice,  he  felt  instinctively 
that  it  would  be  agreeable  to  walk  back  to  Man- 
hattan rather  than  permit  the  roaring  disillusion 
of  the  subway  to  break  in  upon  his  meditations. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  Aubrey  would  have  badly 
flunked  any  quizzing  on  the  chapters  of  Somebody9 s 
Luggage  which  the  bookseller  had  read  aloud. 
His  mind  was  swimming  rapidly  in  the  agreeable, 
unfettered  fashion  of  a  stream  rippling  downhill. 
As  O.  Henry  puts  it  in  one  of  his  most  delightful 
stories:  "He  was  outwardly  decent  and  managed 
to  preserve  his  aquarium,  but  inside  he  was  im- 
promptu and  full  of  unexpectedness."  To  say 
that  he  was  thinking  of  Miss  Chapman  would 
imply  too  much  power  of  ratiocination  and  abstract 
scrutiny  on  his  part.  He  was  not  thinking:  he 
was  being  thought.  Down  the  accustomed  chan- 

08 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP          99 

nels  of  his  intellect  he  felt  his  mind  ebbing  with  the 
irresistible  movement  of  tides  drawn  by  the 
blandishing  moon.  And  across  these  shimmering 
estuaries  of  impulse  his  will,  a  lost  and  naked 
athlete,  was  painfully  attempting  to  swim,  but 
making  much  leeway  and  already  almost  resigned 
to  being  carried  out  to  sea. 

He  stopped  a  moment  at  Weintraub's  drug 
store,  on  the  corner  of  Gissing  Street  and  Words- 
worth Avenue,  to  buy  some  cigarettes,  unfailing 
solace  of  an  agitated  bosom. 

It  was  the  usual  old-fashioned  pharmacy  of 
those  parts  of  Brooklyn:  tall  red,  green,  and  blue 
vases  of  liquid  in  the  windows  threw  blotches  of 
coloured  light  onto  the  pavement;  on  the  panes  was 
affixed  white  china  lettering:  H.  WE  TRAUB, 
DEUT  CHE  APOTHEKER.  Inside,  the  cus- 
tomary shelves  of  labelled  jars,  glass  cases  holding 
cigars,  nostrums  and  toilet  knick-knacks,  and  in 
one  corner  an  ancient  revolving  bookcase  de- 
posited long  ago  by  the  Tabard  Inn  Library.  The 
shop  was  empty,  but  as  he  opened  the  door  a  bell 
buzzed  sharply.  In  a  back  chamber  he  could 
hear  voices.  As  he  waited  idly  for  the  druggist  to 
appear,  Aubrey  cast  a  tolerant  eye  over  the  dusty 
volumes  in  the  twirling  case.  There  were  the 
usual  copies  of  Harold  MacGrath's  The  Man  on 
the  Box,  A  Girl  of  the  Limberlost,  and  The  House- 


100         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

boat  on  the  Sty.  The  Divine  Fire,  much  grimed, 
leaned  against  Joe  Chappie's  Heart  Throbs.  Those 
familiar  with  the  Tabard  Inn  bookcases  still  to  be 
found  in  outlying  drug-shops  know  that  the  stock 
has  not  been  "turned"  for  many  a  year.  Aubrey 
was  the  more  surprised,  on  spinning  the  case  round, 
to  find  wedged  in  between  two  other  volumes  the 
empty  cover  of  a  book  that  had  been  torn  loose 
from  the  pages  to  which  it  belonged.  He  glanced 
at  the  lettering  on  the  back.  It  ran  thus : 

CAELYLE 

OLIVER  CROMWELL'S 
LETTERS 

AND 

SPEECHES 

Obeying  a  sudden  impulse,  he  slipped  the  book 
cover  in  his  overcoat  pocket. 

Mr.  Weintraub  entered  the  shop,  a  solid  Teu- 
tonic person  with  discoloured  pouches  under  his 
eyes  and  a  face  that  was  a  potent  argument  for 
prohibition.  His  manner,  however,  was  that  of 
one  anxious  to  please.  Aubrey  indicated  the 
brand  of  cigarettes  he  wanted.  Having  himself 
coined  the  advertising  catchword  for  them — 
They're  mild — but  they  satisfy — he  felt  a  certain 
loyal  compulsion  always  to  smoke  this  kind.  The 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        101 

druggist  held  out  the  packet,  and  Aubrey  noticed 
that  his  fingers  were  stained  a  deep  saffron  colour. 

"I  see  you're  a  cigarette  smoker,  too,"  said 
Aubrey  pleasantly,  as  he  opened  the  packet  and 
lit  one  of  the  paper  tubes  at  a  little  alcohol  flame 
burning  in  a  globe  of  blue  glass  on  the  counter. 

"Me?  I  never  smoke,"  said  Mr.  Weintraub, 
with  a  smile  which  somehow  did  not  seem  to  fit  his 
surly  face.  "I  must  have  steady  nerves  in  my 
profession.  Apothecaries  who  smoke  make  up 
bad  prescriptions." 

"Well,  how  do  you  get  your  hands  stained  that 
way?" 

Mr.  Weintraub  removed  his  hands  from  the 
counter. 

"Chemicals,"  he  grunted.  "Prescriptions — all 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"Well,"  said  Aubrey,  "smoking's  a  bad  habit. 
I  guess  I  do  too  much  of  it."  He  could  not  resist 
the  impression  that  someone  was  listening  to  their 
talk.  The  doorway  at  the  back  of  the  shop  was 
veiled  by. a  portiere  of  beads  and  thin  bamboo 
sections  threaded  on  strings.  He  heard  them 
clicking  as  though  they  had  been  momentarily 
pulled  aside.  Turning,  just  as  he  opened  the  door 
to  leave,  he  noticed  the  bamboo  curtain  swaying. 

"Well,  good-night,"  he  said,  and  stepped  out 
onto  the  street. 


102         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

As  he  walked  down  Wordsworth  Avenue,  under 
the  thunder  of  the  L,  past  lighted  lunchrooms, 
oyster  saloons,  and  pawnshops,  Miss  Chapman 
resumed  her  sway.  With  the  delightful  velocity 
of  thought  his  mind  whirled  in  a  narrowing  spiral 
round  the  experience  of  the  evening.  The  small 
book-crammed  sitting  room  of  the  Mifflins,  the 
sparkling  fire,  the  lively  chirrup  of  the  bookseller 
reading  aloud — and  there,  in  the  old  easy  chair 
whose  horsehair  stuffing  was  bulging  out,  that 
blue-eyed  vision  of  careless  girlhood!  Happily 
he  had  been  so  seated  that  he  could  study  her  with- 
out seeming  to  do  so.  The  line  of  her  ankle  where 
the  firelight  danced  upon  it  put  Coles  Phillips 
to  shame,  he  averred.  Extraordinary,  how  these 
creatures  are  made  to  torment  us  with  their  in- 
tolerable comeliness!  Against  the  background 
of  dusky  bindings  her  head  shone  with  a  soft  haze 
of  gold.  Her  face,  that  had  an  air  of  naive  and 
provoking  independence,  made  him  angry  with 
its  unnecessary  surplus  of  enchantment.  An 
unaccountable  gust  of  rage  drove  him  rapidly 
along  the  frozen  street.  "Damn  it,"  he  cried, 
"what  right  has  any  girl  to  be  as  pretty  as  that? 
Why — why,  I'd  like  to  beat  her!"  he  muttered, 
amazed  at  himself.  "What  the  devil  right  has  a 
girl  got  to  look  so  innocently  adorable?" 

It  would  be  unseemly  to  follow  poor  Aubrey  in 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         103 

his  vacillations  of  rage  and  worship  as  he  thrashed 
along  Wordsworth  Avenue,  hearing  and  seeing  no 
more  than  was  necessary  for  the  preservation  of 
his  life  at  street  crossings.  Half -smoked  cigarette 
stubs  glowed  in  his  wake;*  his  burly  bosom  echoed 
with  incoherent  oratory.  In  the  darker  stretches 
of  Fulton  Street  that  lead  up  to  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge  he  fiercely  exclaimed:  "By  God,  it's  not 
such  a  bad  world."  As  he  ascended  the  slope  of 
that  vast  airy  span,  a  black  midget  against  a  froth 
of  stars,  he  was  gravely  planning  such  vehemence 
of  exploit  in  the  advertising  profession  as  would 
make  it  seem  less  absurd  to  approach  the  President 
of  the  Daintybits  Corporation  with  a  question  for 
which  no  progenitor  of  loveliness  is  ever  quite 
prepared. 

In  the  exact  centre  of  the  bridge  something 
diluted  his  mood;  he  halted,  leaning  against  the 
railing,  to  consider  the  splendour  of  the  scene.  The 
hour  was  late — moving  on  toward  midnight — but 
in  the  tall  black  precipices  of  Manhattan  scattered 
lights  gleamed,  in  an  odd,  irregular  pattern  like  the 
sparse  punctures  on  the  raffle-board — "takeachance 
on  a  Milk-Fed  Turkey" — the  East  Indian  elevator- 
boy  presents  to  apartment-house  tenants  about 
Hallowe'en.  A  fume  of  golden  light  eddied  over 

*NoTE  WHILE  PROOFREADING:  Surely  this  phrase  was  unconsciously 
lifted  from  R.  L.  S.     But  where  does  the  original  occur?     c.  D.  M. 


104         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

uptown  merriment:  he  could  see  the  ruby  beacon 
on  the  Metropolitan  Tower  signal  three  quarters. 
Underneath  the  airy  decking  of  the  bridge  a  tug 
went  puffing  by,  her  port  and  starboard  lamps 
trailing  red  and  green  threads  over  the  tideway. 
Some  great  argosy  of  the  Staten  Island  fleet  swept 
serenely  down  to  St.  George,  past  Liberty  in  her 
soft  robe  of  light,  carrying  theatred  commuters, 
dazed  with  weariness  and  blinking  at  the  raw  fury 
of  the  electric  bulbs.  Overhead  the  night  was  a 
superb  arch  of  clear  frost,  sifted  with  stars.  Blue 
sparks  crackled  stickily  along  the  trolley  wires  as 
the  cars  groaned  over  the  bridge. 

Aubrey  surveyed  all  this  splendid  scene  without 
exact  observation.  He  was  of  a  philosophic  turn, 
and  was  attempting  to  console  his  discomfiture 
in  the  overwhelming  lustre  of  Miss  Titania  by  the 
thought  that  she  was,  after  all,  the  creature  and 
offspring  of  the  science  he  worshipped — that  of 
Advertising.  Was  not  the  fragrance  of  her  pres- 
ence, the  soft  compulsion  of  her  gaze,  even  the 
delirious  frill  of  muslin  at  her  wrist,  to  be  set  down 
to  the  credit  of  his  chosen  art?  Had  he  not,  pon- 
dering obscurely  upon  "attention-compelling" 
copy  and  lay-out  and  type-face,  in  a  corner  of  the 
Grey-Matter  office,  contributed  to  the  triumphant 
prosperity  and  grace  of  this  unconscious  benefi- 
ciary? Indeed  she  seemed  to  him,  fiercely  tor- 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         105 

menting  himself  with  her  loveliness,  a  symbol  of 
the  mysterious  and  subtle  power  of  publicity.  It 
was  Advertising  that  had  done  this — that  had 
enabled  Mr.  Chapman,  a  shy  and  droll  little  per- 
son, to  surround  this  girl  with  all  the  fructifying 
glories  of  civilization — to  foster  and  cherish  her 
until  she  shone  upon  the  earth  like  a  morning  star! 
Advertising  had  clothed  her,  Advertising  had  fed 
her,  schooled,  roofed,  and  sheltered  her.  In  a 
sense  she  was  the  crowning  advertisement  of  her 
father's  career,  and  her  innocent  perfection  taunted 
him  just  as  much  as  the  bright  sky-sign  he  knew 
was  flashing  the  words  CHAPMAN  PRUNES  above  the 
teeming  pavements  of  Times  Square.  He  groaned 
to  think  that  he  himself,  by  his  conscientious 
labours,  had  helped  to  put  this  girl  in  such  a  po- 
sition that  he  could  hardly  dare  approach  her. 

He  would  never  have  approached  her  again,  on 
any  pretext,  if  the  intensity  of  his  thoughts  had 
not  caused  him,  unconsciously,  to  grip  the  railing 
of  the  bridge  with  strong  and  angry  hands.  For 
at  that  moment  a  sack  was  thrown  over  his  head 
from  behind  and  he  was  violently  seized  by  the 
legs,  with  the  obvious  intent  of  hoisting  him  over 
the  parapet.  His  unexpected  grip  on  the  railing 
delayed  this  attempt  just  long  enough  to  save  him. 
Swept  off  his  feet  by  the  fury  of  the  assault,  he  fell 
sideways  against  the  barrier  and  had  the  good 


106         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

fortune  to  seize  his  enemy  by  the  leg.  Muffled  in 
the  sacking,  it  was  vain  to  cry  out;  but  he  held 
furiously  to  the  limb  he  had  grasped  and  he  and 
his  attacker  rolled  together  on  the  footway.  Aub- 
rey was  a  powerful  man,  and  even  despite  the 
surprise  could  probably  have  got  the  better  of  the 
situation;  but  as  he  wrestled  desperately  and  tried 
to  rid  himself  of  his  hood,  a  crashing  blow  fell  upon 
his  head,  half  stunning  him.  He  lay  sprawled  out, 
momentarily  incapable  of  struggle,  yet  conscious 
enough  to  expect,  rather  curiously,  the  dizzying 
sensation  of  a  drop  through  insupportable  air 
into  the  icy  water  of  the  East  River.  Hands  seized 
him — and  then,  passively,  he  heard  a  shout,  the 
sound  of  footsteps  running  on  the  planks,  and 
other  footsteps  hurrying  away  at  top  speed.  In 
a  moment  the  sacking  was  torn  from  his  head  and 
a  friendly  pedestrian  was  kneeling  beside  him. 

"Say,  are  you  all  right?"  said  the  latter  anx- 
iously. "  Gee,  those  guys  nearly  got  you." 

Aubrey  was  too  faint  and  dizzy  to  speak  for  a 
moment.  His  head  was  numb  and  he  felt  certain 
that  several  inches  of  it  had  been  caved  in.  Putting 
up  his  hand,  feebly,  he  was  surprised  to  find  the 
contours  of  his  skull  much  the  same  as  usual.  The 
stranger  propped  him  against  his  knee  and  wiped 
away  a  trickle  of  blood  with  his  handkerchief. 

"  Say,  old  man,  I  thought  you  was  a  goner,"  he 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         107 

said  sympathetically.  "I  seen  those  fellows  jump 
you.  Too  bad  they  got  away.  Dirty  work,  I'll 
say  so." 

Aubrey  gulped  the  night  air,  and  sat  up.  The 
bridge  rocked  under  him;  against  the  star-speckled 
sky  he  could  see  the  Woolworth  Building  bending 
and  jazzing  like  a  poplar  tree  in  a  gale.  He  felt 
very  sick. 

"Ever  so  mucji  obliged  to  you,"  he  stammered. 
"I'll  be  all  right  in  a  minute." 

"D'  you  want  me  to  go  and  ring  up  a  nambu- 
lance?"  said  his  assistant. 

"No,  no, "  said  Aubrey;  'Til  be  all  right."  He 
staggered  to  his  feet  and  clung  to  the  rail  of  the 
bridge,  trying  to  collect  his  wits.  One  phrase  ran 
over  and  over  in  his  mind  with  damnable  itera- 
tion— "Mild,  but  they  satisfy!" 

"Where  were  you  going?"  said  the  other,  sup- 
porting him. 

"Madison  Avenue  and  Thirty-Second " 

"Maybe  I  can  flag  a  jitney  for  you.  Here," 
he  cried,  as  another  citizen  approached  afoot, 
"  Give  this  fellow  a  hand.  Someone  beat  him  over 
the  bean  with  a  club.  I'm  going  to  get  him  a  lift." 

The  newcomer  readily  undertook  the  friendly 
task,  and  tied  Aubrey's  handkerchief  round  his 
head,  which  was  bleeding  freely.  After  a  few 
moments  the  first  Samaritan  succeeded  in  stopp- 


108         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

ing  a  touring  car  which  was  speeding  over  from 
Brooklyn.  The  driver  willingly  agreed  to  take 
Aubrey  home,  and  the  other  two  helped  him  in. 
Barring  a  nasty  gash  on  his  scalp  he  was  none  the 
worse. 

"A  fellow  needs  a  tin  hat  if  he's  going  to  wander 
round  Long  Island  at  night,"  said  the  motorist 
genially.  "Two  fellows  tried  to  hold  me  up  com- 
ing in  from  Rockville  Centre  the  other  evening. 
Maybe  they  were  the  same  two  that  picked  on  you. 
Did  you  get  a  look  at  them?" 

"No,"  said  Aubrey.  "That  piece  of  sacking 
might  have  helped  me  trace  them,  but  I  forgot  it." 

"Want  to  run  back  for  it?" 

"Never  mind,"  said  Aubrey.  "I've  got  a  hunch 
about  this." 

"Think  you  know  who  it  is?  Maybe  you're 
in  politics,  hey?" 

The  car  ran  swiftly  up  the  dark  channel  of  the 
Bowery,  into  Fourth  Avenue,  and  turned  off  at 
Thirty-Second  Street  to  deposit  Aubrey  in  front 
of  his  boarding  house.  He  thanked  his  convoy 
heartily,  and  refused  further  assistance.  After 
several  false  shots  he  got  his  latch  key  in  the  lock, 
climbed  four  creaking  flights,  and  stumbled  into 
his  room.  Groping  his  way  to  the  wash-basin, 
he  bathed  his  throbbing  head,  tied  a  towel  round 
it,  and  fell  into  bed. 


CHAPTER  VI 
T1TANIA  LEARNS  THE  BUSINESS 

A  THOUGH    he    kept    late    hours,    Roger 
Mifflin  was  a  prompt  riser.     It  is  only  the 
very  young  who  find  satisfaction  in  lying 
abed  in  the  morning.     Those  who  approach  the 
term  of  the  fifth  decade  are  sensitively  aware  of 
the  fluency  of  life,  and  have  no  taste  to  squander 
it  among  the  blankets. 

The  bookseller's  morning  routine  was  brisk  and 
habitual.  He  was  generally  awakened  about 
half -past  seven  by  the  jangling  bell  that  balanced 
on  a  coiled  spring  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  This 
ringing  announced  the  arrival  of  Becky,  the  old 
scrubwoman  who  came  each  morning  to  sweep  out 
the  shop  and  clean  the  floors  for  the  day's  traffic. 
Roger,  in  his  old  dressing  gown  of  vermilion  flan- 
nel, would  scuffle  down  to  let  her  in,  picking  up  the 
milk  bottles  and  the  paper  bag  of  baker's  rolls  at 
the  same  time.  As  Becky  propped  the  front  door 
wide,  opened  window  transoms,  and  set  about 
buffeting  dust  and  tobacco  smoke,  Roger  would 
take  the  milk  and  rolls  back  to  the  kitchen  and 

109 


110         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

give  Bock  a  morning  greeting.  Bock  would 
emerge  from  his  literary  kennel,  and  thrust  out  his 
forelegs  in  a  genial  obeisance.  This  was  partly 
politeness,  and  partly  to  straighten  out  his  spine 
after  its  all-night  curvature.  Then  Roger  would 
let  him  out  into  the  back  yard  for  a  run,  himself 
standing  on  the  kitchen  steps  to  inhale  the  bright 
freshness  of  the  morning  air. 

This  Saturday  morning  was  clear  and  crisp.  The 
plain  backs  of  the  homes  along  Whittier  Street, 
irregular  in  profile  as  the  margins  of  a  free  verse 
poem,  offered  Roger  an  agreeable  human  pano- 
rama. Thin  strands  of  smoke  were  rising  from 
chimneys;  a  belated  baker's  wagon  was  joggling 
down  the  alley;  in  bedroom  bay-windows  sheets 
and  pillows  were  already  set  to  sun  and  air. 
Brooklyn,  admirable  borough  of  homes  and 
hearty  breakfasts,  attacks  the  morning  hours  in 
cheery,  smiling  spirit.  Bock  sniffed  and  rooted 
about  the  small  back  yard  as  though  the  earth 
(every  cubic  inch  of  which  he  already  knew  by 
rote)  held  some  new  entrancing  flavour.  Roger 
watched  him  with  the  amused  and  tender  con- 
descension one  always  feels  toward  a  happy  dog — 
perhaps  the  same  mood  of  tolerant  paternalism 
that  Gott  is  said  to  have  felt  in  watching  his  bois- 
terous Hohenzollerns. 

The  nipping  air  began  to  infiltrate  his  dressing 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         111 

gown,  and  Roger  returned  to  the  kitchen,  his  small, 
lively  face  alight  with  zest.  He  opened  the 
draughts  in  the  range,  set  a  kettle  on  to  boil,  and 
went  down  to  resuscitate  the  furnace.  As  he 
came  upstairs  for  his  bath,  Mrs.  Mifflin  was  de- 
scending, fresh  and  hearty  in  a  starchy  morning 
apron.  Roger  hummed  a  tune  as  he  picked  up 
the  hairpins  on  the  bedroom  floor,  and  wondered 
to  himself  why  women  are  always  supposed  to  be 
more  tidy  than  men. 

Titania  was  awake  early.  She  smiled  at  the 
enigmatic  portrait  of  Samuel  Butler,  glanced  at 
the  row  of  books  over  her  bed,  and  dressed  rapidly. 
She  ran  downstairs,  eager  to  begin  her  experience 
as  a  bookseller.  The  first  impression  the  Haunted 
Bookshop  had  made  on  her  was  one  of  superfluous 
dinginess,  and  as  Mrs.  Mifflin  refused  to  let  her 
help  get  breakfast — except  set  out  the  salt  cellars — 
she  ran  down  Gissing  Street  to  a  little  florist's  shop 
she  had  noticed  the  previous  afternoon.  Here  she 
spent  at  least  a  week's  salary  in  buying  chrysan- 
themums and  a  large  pot  of  white  heather.  She 
was  distributing  these  about  the  shop  when  Roger 
found  her. 

"Bless  my  soul!"  he  said.  "How  are  you  go- 
ing to  live  on  your  wages  if  you  do  that  sort  of 
thing?  Pay-day  doesn't  come  until  next  Friday ! " 

"Just  one  blow-out,"  she  said  cheerfully.     "I 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

thought  it  would  be  fun  to  brighten  the  place  up  a 
bit.  Think  how  pleased  your  floorwalker  will  be 
when  he  comes  in!" 

"Dear  me,"  said  Roger.  "I  hope  you  don't 
really  think  we  have  floorwalkers  in  the  second- 
hand book  business." 

After  breakfast  he  set  about  initiating  his  new 
employee  into  the  routine  of  the  shop.  As  he 
moved  about,  explaining  the  arrangement  of  his 
shelves,  he  kept  up  a  running  commentary. 

"Of  course  all  the  miscellaneous  information 
that  a  bookseller  has  to  have  will  only  come  to  you 
gradually,"  he  said.  "Such  tags  of  bookshop  lore 
as  the  difference  between  Philo  Gubb  and  Philip 
Gibbs,  Mrs.  Wilson  Woodrow  and  Mrs.  Woodrow 
Wilson,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Don't  be 
frightened  by  all  the  ads  you  see  for  a  book  called 
"Bell  and  Wing,"  because  no  one  was  ever  heard 
to  ask  for  a  copy.  That's  one  of  the  reasons  why 
I  tell  Mr.  Gilbert  I  don't  believe  in  advertising. 
Someone  may  ask  you  who  wrote  The  Winning 
of  the  Best,  and  you'll  have  to  know  it  wasn't 
Colonel  Roosevelt  but  Mr.  Ralph  Waldo  Trine. 
The  beauty  of  being  a  bookseller  is  that  you  don't 
have  to  be  a  literary  critic:  all  you  have  to  do  to 
books  is  enjoy  them.  A  literary  critic  is  the  kind 
of  fellow  who  will  tell  you  that  Wordsworth's 
Happy  Warrior  is  a  poem  of  85  lines  composed 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         113 

entirely  of  two  sentences,  one  of  26  lines  and  one 
of  59.  What  does  it  matter  if  Wordsworth  wrote 
sentences  almost  as  long  as  those  of  Walt  Whit- 
man or  Mr.  Will  H.  Hayes,  if  only  he  wrote  a 
great  poem?  Literary  critics  are  queer  birds. 
There's  Professor  Phelps  of  Yale,  for  instance.  He 
publishes  a  book  in  1918  and  calls  it  The  Advance 
of  English  Poetry  in  the  Twentieth  Century.  To 
my  way  of  thinking  a  book  of  that  title  oughtn't  to 
be  published  until  2018.  Then  somebody  will 
come  along  and  ask  you  for  a  book  of  poems  about 
a  typewriter,  and  bye  and  bye  you'll  learn  that 
what  they  want  is  Stevenson's  Underwoods.  Yes, 
it's  a  complicated  life.  Never  argue  with  cus- 
tomers. Just  give  them  the  book  they  ought  to 
have  even  if  they  don't  know  they  want  it." 

They  went  outside  the  front  door,  and  Roger 
lit  his  pipe.  In  the  little  area  in  front  of  the  shop 
windows  stood  large  empty  boxes  supported  on 

trestles.  "The  first  thing  I  always  do ,"  he 

said. 

"The  first  thing  you'll  both  do  is  catch  your 
death  of  cold,"  said  Helen  over  his  shoulder. 
"Titania,  you  run  and  get  your  fur.  Roger,  go 
and  find  your  cap.  With  your  bald  head,  you 
ought  to  know  better!" 

When  they  returned  to  the  front  door,  Titania's 
blue  eyes  were  sparkling  above  her  soft  tippet. 


114         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"I  applaud  your  taste  in  furs,"  said  Roger. 
"That  is  just  the  colour  of  tobacco  smoke."  He 
blew  a  whiff  against  it  to  prove  the  likeness.  He 
felt  very  talkative,  as  most  older  men  do  when 
a  young  girl  looks  as  delightfully  listenable  as 
Titania. 

"What  an  adorable  little  place,"  said  Titania, 
looking  round  at  the  bookshop's  space  of  private 
pavement,  which  was  sunk  below  the  street  level. 
"You  could  put  tables  out  here  and  serve  tea  in 
summer  time." 

"The  first  thing  every  morning,"  continued 
Roger,  "I  set  out  the  ten-cent  stuff  in  these  boxes. 
I  take  it  in  at  night  and  stow  it  in  these  bins. 
When  it  rains,  I  shove  out  an  awning,  which  is 
mighty  good  business.  Someone  is  sure  to  take 
shelter,  and  spend  the  time  in  looking  over  the 
books.  A  really  heavy  shower  is  often  worth 
fifty  or  sixty  cents.  Once  a  week  I  change  my 
pavement  stock.  This  week  I've  got  mostly  fic- 
tion out  here.  That's  the  sort  of  thing  that  comes 
in  in  unlimited  numbers.  A  good  deal  of  it's 
tripe,  but  it  serves  its  purpose." 

"Aren't  they  rather  dirty?"  said  Titania  doubt- 
fully, looking  at  some  little  blue  Rollo  books,  on 
which  the  sif tings  of  generations  had  accumulated. 
"Would  you  mind  if  I  dusted  them  off  a  bit?" 

"It's  almost  unheard   of  in  the  second-hand 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         115 

trade,"  said  Roger;  "but  it  might  make  them  look 
better." 

Titania  ran  inside,  borrowed  a  duster  from 
Helen,  and  began  housecleaning  the  grimy  boxes, 
while  Roger  chatted  away  in  high  spirits.  Bock, 
already  noticing  the  new  order  of  things,  squatted 
on  the  doorstep  with  an  air  of  being  a  party  to  the 
conversation.  Morning  pedestrians  on  Gissing 
Street  passed  by,  wondering  who  the  bookseller's 
engaging  assistant  might  be.  "I  wish  I  could 
find  a  maid  like  that,"  thought  a  prosperous  Brook- 
lyn housewife  on  her  way  to  market.  "I  must 
ring  her  up  some  day  and  find  out  how  much  she 
gets." 

Roger  brought  out  armfuls  of  books  while 
Titania  dusted. 

"One  of  the  reasons  I'm  awfully  glad  you've 
come  here  to  help  me,"  he  said,  "is  that  I'll  be 
able  to  get  out  more.  I've  been  so  tied  down  by 
the  shop,  I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  scout  round, 
buy  up  libraries,  make  bids  on  collections  that 
are  being  sold,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  My 
stock  is  running  a  bit  low.  If  you  just  wait 
for  what  comes  in,  you  don't  get  much  of  the 
really  good  stuff." 

Titania  was  polishing  a  copy  of  The  Late  Mrs. 
Null.  "It  must  be  wonderful  to  have  read  so 
many  books,"  she  said.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  not  a 


116         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

very  deep  reader,  but  at  any  rate  Dad  has  taught 
me  a  respect  for  good  books.  He  gets  so  mad 
because  when  my  friends  come  to  the  house, 
and  he  asks  them  what  they've  been  reading, 
the  only  thing  they  seem  to  know  about  is  Dere 
Mahler 

Roger  chuckled.  "I  hope  you  don't  think  Fm 
a  mere  highbrow,"  he  said.  "As  a  customer  said 
to  me  once,  without  meaning  to  be  funny,  'I  like 
both  the  Iliad  and  the  Argosy.9  The  only  thing 
I  can't  stand  is  literature  that  is  unfairly  and  in- 
tentionally flavoured  with  vanilla.  Confectionery 
soon  disgusts  the  palate,  whether  you  find  it  in 
Marcus  Aurelius  or  Doctor  Crane.  There's  an 
odd  aspect  of  the  matter  that  sometimes  strikes 
me:  Doc  Crane's  remarks  are  just  as  true  as  Lord 
Bacon's,  so  how  is  it  that  the  Doctor  puts  me  to 
sleep  in  a  paragraph,  while  my  Lord's  essays  keep 
me  awake  all  night?" 

Titania,  being  unacquainted  with  these  philoso- 
phers, pursued  the  characteristic  feminine  course 
of  clinging  to  the  subject  on  which  she  was  in- 
formed. The  undiscerning  have  called  this  habit 
of  mind  irrelevant,  but  wrongly.  The  feminine 
intellect  leaps  like  a  grasshopper;  the  masculine 
plods  as  the  ant. 

"I  see  there's  a  new  Mable  book  coming,"  she 
said.  "It's  called  That's  Me  All  Over  Mable, 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         117 

and  the  newsstand  clerk  at  the  Octagon  says  he 
expects  to  sell  a  thousand  copies." 

"Well,  there's  a  meaning  in  that,"  said  Roger. 
"People  have  a  craving  to  be  amused,  and  I'm 
sure  I  don't  blame  'em.  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  read 
Dere  Mable.  If  it's  really  amusing,  I'm  glad  they 
read  it.  I  suspect  it  isn't  a  very  great  book,  be- 
cause a  Philadelphia  schoolgirl  has  written  a  reply 
to  it  called  Dere  Bill,  which  is  said  to  be  as  good  as 
the  original.  Now  you  can  hardly  imagine  a 
Philadelphia  flapper  writing  an  effective  compan- 
ion to  Bacon's  Essays.  But  never  mind,  if  the 
stuff's  amusing,  it  has  its  place.  The  human 
yearning  for  innocent  pastime  is  a  pathetic  thing, 
come  to  think  about  it.  It  shows  what  a  desper- 
ately grim  thing  life  has  become.  One  of  the  most 
significant  things  I  know  is  that  breathless,  ex- 
pectant, adoring  hush  that  falls  over  a  theatre  at  a 
Saturday  matinee,  when  the  house  goes  dark  and 
the  footlights  set  the  bottom  of  the  curtain  in  a 
glow,  and  the  latecomers  tank  over  your  feet  climb- 
ing into  their  seats " 

"Isn't  it  an  adorable  moment!"  cried  Titania. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Roger;  "but  it  makes  me  sad 
to  see  what  tosh  is  handed  out  to  that  eager,  ex- 
pectant audience,  most  of  the  time.  There  they 
all  are,  ready  to  be  thrilled,  eager  to  be  worked 
upon,  deliberately  putting  themselves  into  that 


118         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

glorious,  rare,  receptive  mood  when  they  are  clay 
in  the  artist's  hand — and  Lord!  what  miserable 
substitutes  for  joy  and  sorrow  are  put  over  on 
them!  Day  after  day  I  see  people  streaming  into 
theatres  and  movies,  and  I  know  that  more  than 
half  the  time  they  are  on  a  blind  quest,  thinking 
they  are  satisfied  when  in  truth  they  are  fed  on 
paltry  husks.  And  the  sad  part  about  it  is  that  if 
you  let  yourself  think  you  are  satisfied  with  husks, 
you'll  have  no  appetite  left  for  the  real  grain." 

Titania  wondered,  a  little  panic-stricken, 
whether  she  had  been  permitting  herself  to  be 
satisfied  with  husks.  She  remembered  how  greatly 
she  had  enjoyed  a  Dorothy  Gish  film  a  few  even- 
ings before.  "But,"  she  ventured,  "y°u  said 
people  want  to  be  amused.  And  if  they  laugh 
and  look  happy,  surely  they're  amused?" 

"They  only  think  they  are!"  cried  Mifflin. 
"They  think  they're  amused  because  they  don't 
know  what  real  amusement  is!  Laughter  and 
prayer  are  the  two  noblest  habits  of  man;  they 
mark  us  off  from  the  brutes.  To  laugh  at  cheap 
jests  is  as  base  as  to  pray  to  cheap  gods.  To 
laugh  at  Fatty  Arbuckle  is  to  degrade  the  human 
spirit." 

Titania  thought  she  was  getting  in  rather  deep, 
but  she  had  the  tenacious  logic  of  every  healthy 
girl.  She  said: 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         119 

"But  a  joke  that  seems  cheap  to  you  doesn't 
seem  cheap  to  the  person  who  laughs  at  it,  or  he 
wouldn't  laugh." 

Her  face  brightened  as  a  fresh  idea  flooded  her 
mind: 

"The  wooden  image  a  savage  prays  to  may 
seem  cheap  to  you,  but  it's  the  best  god  he  knows, 
and  it's  all  right  for  him  to  pray  to  it." 

"Bully  for  you,"  said  Roger.  "Perfectly  true. 
But  I've  got  away  from  the  point  I  had  in  mind. 
Humanity  is  yearning  now  as  it  never  did  before 
for  truth,  for  beauty,  for  the  things  that  comfort 
and  console  and  make  life  seem  worth  while.  I 
feel  this  all  round  me,  every  day.  We've  been 
through  a  frightful  ordeal,  and  every  decent  spirit 
is  asking  itself  what  we  can  do  to  pick  up  the 
fragments  and  remould  the  world  nearer  to  our 
heart's  desire.  Look  here,  here's  something  I 
found  the  other  day  in  John  Masefield's  preface 
to  one  of  his  plays:  "  The  truth  and  rapture  of  man 
are  holy  things,  not  lightly  to  be  scorned.  A  care- 
lessness  of  life  and  beauty  marks  the  glutton,  the 
idler,  and  the  fool  in  their  deadly  path  across  history." 
"I  tell  you,  I've  done  some  pretty  sober  think- 
ing as  I've  sat  here  in  my  bookshop  during  the 
past  horrible  years.  Walt  Whitman  wrote  a  little 
poem  during  the  Civil  War — Year  that  trembled 
and  reeled  beneath  me,  said  Walt,  Must  I  learn  to 


120         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

chant  the  cold  dirges  of  the  baffled,  and  sullen  hymns 
of  defeat  ? — I've  sat  here  in  my  shop  at  night,  and 
looked  round  at  my  shelves,  looked  at  all  the 
brave  books  that  house  the  hopes  and  gentle- 
nesses and  dreams  of  men  and  women,  and  won- 
dered if  they  were  all  wrong,  discredited,  defeated. 
Wondered  if  the  world  were  still  merely  a  jungle  of 
fury.  I  think  I'd  have  gone  balmy  if  it  weren't 
for  Walt  Whitman.  Talk  about  Mr.  Britling— 
Walt  was  the  man  who  'saw  it  through.' 

"The  glutton,  the  idler,  and  the  fool  in  their 
deadly  path  across  history.  ...  Aye,  a 
deadly  path  indeed.  The  German  military  men 
weren't  idlers,  but  they  were  gluttons  and  fools 
to  the  nth  power.  Look  at  their  deadly  path! 
And  look  at  other  deadly  paths,  too.  Look  at 
our  slums,  jails,  insane  asylums.  .  . 

"I  used  to  wonder  what  I  could  do  to  justify 
my  comfortable  existence  here  during  such  a  time 
of  horror.  What  right  had  I  to  shirk  in  a  quiet 
bookshop  when  so  many  men  were  suffering  and 
dying  through  no  fault  of  their  own?  I  tried  to 
get  into  an  ambulance  unit,  but  I've  had  no  medi- 
cal training  and  they  said  they  didn't  want  men 
of  my  age  unless  they  were  experienced  doctors." 

"I  know  how  you  felt,"  said  Titania,  with  a 
surprising  look  of  comprehension.  "Don't  you 
suppose  that  a  great  many  girls,  who  couldn't  do 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        121 

anything  real  to  help,  got  tired  of  wearing  neat 
little  uniforms  with  Sam  Browne  belts?  " 

"Well,"  said  Roger,  "it  was  a  bad  time.  The 
war  contradicted  and  denied  everything  I  had  ever 
lived  for.  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  felt  about 
it.  I  can't  even  express  it  to  myself.  Sometimes 
I  used  to  feel  as  I  think  that  truly  noble  simpleton 
Henry  Ford  may  have  felt  when  he  organized  his 
peace  voyage — that  I  would  do  anything,  however 
stupid,  to  stop  it  all.  In  a  world  where  everyone 
was  so  wise  and  cynical  and  cruel,  it  was  admirable 
to  find  a  man  so  utterly  simple  and  hopeful  as 
Henry.  A  boob,  they  called  him.  Well,  I  say 
bravo  for  boobs!  I  daresay  most  of  the  apostles 
were  boobs — or  maybe  they  called  them  bol- 
sheviks." 

Titania  had  only  the  vaguest  notion  about 
bolsheviks,  but  she  had  seen  a  good  many  news- 
paper cartoons. 

"I  guess  Judas  was  a  bolshevik,"  she  said  in- 
nocently. 

"Yes,  and  probably  George  the  Third  called 
Ben  Franklin  a  bolshevik,"  retorted  Roger.  "  The 
trouble  is,  truth  and  falsehood  don't  come  laid  out 
in  black  and  white — Truth  and  Huntruth,  as  the 
wartime  joke  had  it.  Sometimes  I  thought  Truth 
had  vanished  from  the  earth,"  he  cried  bitterly. 
"Like  everything  else,  it  was  rationed  by  the 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

governments.  I  taught  myself  to  disbelieve  half 
of  what  I  read  in  the  papers.  I  saw  the  world 
clawing  itself  to  shreds  in  blind  rage.  I  saw  hardly 
any  one  brave  enough  to  face  the  brutalizing  ab- 
surdity as  it  really  was,  and  describe  it.  I  saw 
the  glutton,  the  idler,  and  the  fool  applauding, 
while  brave  and  simple  men  walked  in  the  horrors 
of  hell.  The  stay-at-home  poets  turned  it  to 
pretty  lyrics  of  glory  and  sacrifice.  Perhaps  half 
a  dozen  of  them  have  told  the  truth.  Have  you 
read  Sassoon?  Or  Latzko's  Men  in  War,  which 
was  so  damned  true  that  the  government  sup- 
pressed it  ?  Humph !  Putting  Truth  on  rations ! ' ' 

He  knocked  out  his  pipe  against  his  heel,  and  his 
blue  eyes  shone  with  a  kind  of  desperate  earnest- 
ness. 

"But  I  tell  you,  the  world  is  going  to  have  the 
truth  about  War.  We're  going  to  put  an  end  to 
this  madness.  It's  not  going  to  be  easy.  Just 
now,  in  the  intoxication  of  the  German  collapse, 
we're  all  rejoicing  in  our  new  happiness.  I  tell 
you,  the  real  Peace  will  be  a  long  time  coming. 
When  you  tear  up  all  the  fibres  of  civilization  it's 
a  slow  job  to  knit  things  together  again.  You 
see  those  children  going  down  the  street  to  school? 
Peace  lies  in  their  hands.  When  they  are  taught 
in  school  that  War  is  the  most  loathsome  scourge 
humanity  is  subject  to,  that  it  smirches  and  fouls 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         123 

every  lovely  occupation  of  the  mortal  spirit,  then 
there  may  be  some  hope  for  the  future.  But 
I'd  like  to  bet  they  are  having  it  drilled  into  them 
that  war  is  a  glorious  and  noble  sacrifice." 

"The  people  who  write  poems  about  the  divine 
frenzy  of  going  over  the  top  are  usually  those  who 
dipped  their  pens  a  long,  long  way  from  the  slimy 
duckboards  of  the  trenches.  It's  funny  how  we 
hate  to  face  realities.  I  knew  a  commuter  once 
who  rode  in  town  every  day  on  the  8.13.  But  he 
used  to  call  it  the  7.73.  He  said  it  made  him  feel 
more  virtuous." 

There  was  a  pause,  while  Roger  watched  some 
belated  urchins  hurrying  toward  school. 

"I  think  any  man  would  be  a  traitor  to  hu- 
manity who  didn't  pledge  every  effort  of  his  waking 
life  to  an  attempt  to  make  war  impossible  in 
future." 

"Surely  no  one  would  deny  that,"  said  Titania. 
"But  I  do  think  the  war  was  very  glorious  as 
well  as  very  terrible.  I've  known  lots  of  men 
who  went  over,  knowing  well  what  they  were  to 
face,  and  yet  went  gladly  and  humbly  in  the 
thought  they  were  going  for  a  true  cause." 

"A  cause  which  is  so  true  shouldn't  need  the 
sacrifice  of  millions  of  fine  lives,"  said  Roger 
gravely.  "Don't  imagine  I  don't  see  the  dreadful 
nobility  of  it.  But  poor  humanity  shouldn't  be 


124         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

asked  to  be  noble  at  such  a  cost.  That's  the 
most  pitiful  tragedy  of  it  all.  Don't  you  suppose 
the  Germans  thought  they  too  were  marching  off 
for  a  noble  cause  when  they  began  it  and  forced 
this  misery  on  the  world?  They  had  been  edu- 
cated to  believe  so,  for  a  generation.  That's  the 
terrible  hypnotism  of  war,  the  brute  mass-impulse, 
the  pride  and  national  spirit,  the  instinctive 
simplicity  of  men  that  makes  them  worship  what 
is  their  own  above  everything  else.  I've  thrilled 
and  shouted  with  patriotic  pride,  like  everyone. 
Music  and  flags  and  men  marching  in  step  have 
bewitched  me,  as  they  do  all  of  us.  And  then  I've 
gone  home  and  sworn  to  root  this  evil  instinct  out 
of  my  soul.  God  help  us — let's  love  the  world, 
love  humanity — not  just  our  own  country !  That's 
why  I'm  so  keen  about  the  part  we're  going  to  play 
at  the  Peace  Conference.  Our  motto  over  there 
will  be  America  Last !  Hurrah  for  us,  I  say,  for  we 
shall  be  the  only  nation  over  there  with  absolutely 
no  axe  to  grind.  Nothing  but  a  pax  to  grind ! " 

It  argued  well  for  Titania's  breadth  of  mind  that 
she  was  not  dismayed  nor  alarmed  at  the  poor 
bookseller's  anguished  harangue.  She  surmised 
sagely  that  he  was  cleansing  his  bosom  of  much 
perilous  stuff.  In  some  mysterious  way  she  had 
learned  the  greatest  and  rarest  of  the  spirit's  gifts 
— toleration. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         125 

V 

"You  can't  help  loving  your  country,"  she  said. 

"Let's  go  indoors,"  he  answered.  "You'll 
catch  cold  out  here.  I  want  to  show  you  my 
alcove  of  books  on  the  war." 

"Of  course  one  can't 'help  loving  one's  country," 
he  added.  "I  love  mine  so  much  that  I  want  to 
see  her  take  the  lead  in  making  a  new  era  possible. 
She  has  sacrificed  least  for  war,  she  should  be 
ready  to  sacrifice  most  for  peace.  As  for  me," 
he  said,  smiling,  "I'd  be  willing  to  sacrifice  the 
whole  Republican  party!" 

"I  don't  see  why  you  call  the  war  an  absurdity," 
said  Titania.  "We  had  to  beat  Germany,  or 
where  would  civilization  have  been?" 

"We  had  to  beat  Germany,  yes,  but  the  absurd- 
ity lies  in  the  fact  that  we  had  to  beat  ourselves 
in  doing  it.  The  first  thing  you'll  find,  when 
the  Peace  Conference  gets  to  work,  will  be  that 
we  shall  have  to  help  Germany  onto  her  feet  again 
so  that  she  can  be  punished  in  an  orderly  way. 
We  shall  have  to  feed  her  and  admit  her  to  com- 
merce so  that  she  can  pay  her  indemnities — we 
shall  have  to  police  her  cities  to  prevent  revolution 
from  burning  her  up — and  the  upshot  of  it  all  will 
be  that  men  will  have  fought  the  most  terrible 
war  in  history,  and  endured  nameless  horrors, 
for  the  privilege  of  nursing  their  enemy  back  to 
health*  If  that  isn't  an  absurdity,  what  is?  That's 


126         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

what  happens  when  a  great  nation  like  Germany 
goes  insane. 

"Well,  we're  up  against  some  terribly  compli- 
cated problems.  My  only  consolation  is  th*at  I 
think  the  bookseller  can  play  as  useful  a  part  as 
any  man  in  rebuilding  the  world's  sanity.  When 
I  was  fretting  over  what  I  could  do  to  help  things 
along,  I  came  across  two  lines  in  my  favourite  poet 
that  encouraged  me.  Good  old  George  Herbert 
says: 

"A  grain  of  glory  mixed  with  humblenesse 
Cures  both  a  fever  and  lethargicknesse. 

"Certainly  running  a  second-hand  bookstore  is 
a  pretty  humble  calling,  but  I've  mixed  a  grain  of 
glory  with  it,  in  my  own  imagination  at  any  rate. 
You  see,  books  contain  the  thoughts  and  dreams 
of  men,  their  hopes  and  strivings  and  all  their 
immortal  parts.  It's  in  books  that  most  of  us 
learn  how  splendidly  worth-while  life  is.  I  never 
realized  the  greatness  of  the  human  spirit,  the 
indomitable  grandeur  of  man's  mind,  until  I  read 
Milton's  Areopagitica.  To  read  that  great  out- 
burst of  splendid  anger  ennobles  the  meanest  of 
us  simply  because  we  belong  to  the  same  species 
of  animal  as  Milton.  Books  are  the  immortality 
of  the  race,  the  father  and  mother  of  most  that  is 
worth  while  cherishing  in  our  hearts.  To  spread 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         127 

good  books  about,  to  sow  them  on  fertile  minds,  to 
propagate  understanding  and  a  carefulness  of  life 
and  beauty,  isn't  that  high  enough  mission  for  a 
man?  The  bookseller  is  the  real  Mr.  Valiant- 
For-Truth. 

"Here's  my  War-alcove,"  he  went  on.  "I've 
stacked  up  here  most  of  the  really  good  books  the 
War  has  brought  out.  If  humanity  has  sense 
enough  to  take  these  books  to  heart,  it  will  never 
get  itself  into  this  mess  again.  Printer's  ink  has 
been  running  a  race  against  gunpowder  these 
many,  many  years.  Ink  is  handicapped,  in  a  way, 
because  you  can  blow  up  a  man  with  gunpowder 
in  half  a  second,  while  it  may  take  twenty  years 
to  blow  him  up  with  a  book.  But  the  gunpowder 
destroys  itself  along  with  its  victim,  while  a  book 
can  keep  on  exploding  for  centuries.  There's 
Hardy's  Dynasts  for  example.  When  you  read 
that  book  you  can  feel  it  blowing  up  your  mind. 
It  leaves  you  gasping,  ill,  nauseated — oh,  it's  not 
pleasant  to  feel  some  really  pure  intellect  filtered 
into  one's  brain!  It  hurts!  There's  enough 
T.  N.  T.  in  that  book  to  blast  war  from  the  face 
of  the  globe.  But  there's  a  slow  fuse  attached 
to  it.  It  hasn't  really  exploded  yet.  Maybe  it 
won't  for  another  fifty  years. 

"In  regard  to  the  War,  think  what  books  have 
accomplished.  What  was  the  first  thing  all  the 


128         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

governments  started  to  do — publish  books!  Blue 
Books,  Yellow  Books,  White  Books,  Red  Books — 
everything  but  Black  Books,  which  would  have 
been  appropriate  in  Berlin.  They  knew  that  guns 
and  troops  were  helpless  unless  they  could  get 
the  books  on  their  side,  too.  Books  did  as  much 
as  anything  else  to  bring  America  into  the  war. 
Some  German  books  helped  to  wipe  the  Kaiser 
off  his  throne — I  Accuse,  and  Dr.  Muehlon's 
magnificent  outburst  The  Vandal  of  Europe,  and 
Lichnowsky's  private  memorandum,  that  shook 
Germany  to  her  foundations,  simply  because  he 
told  the  truth.  Here's  that  book  Men  in  War, 
written  I  believe  by  a  Hungarian  officer,  with  its 
noble  dedication  "To  Friend  and  Foe."  Here 
are  some  of  the  French  books — books  in  which  the 
clear,  passionate  intellect  of  that  race,  with  its 
savage  irony,  burns  like  a  flame.  Romain  Rol- 
land's  Au-Dessus  de  la  Melee,  wrjtten  in  exile  in 
Switzerland;  Barbusse's  terrible  Le  Feu;  Du- 
hamel's  bitter  Civilization;  Bourget's  strangely 
fascinating  novel  The  Meaning  of  Death.  And 
the  noble  books  that  have  come  out  of  England: 
A  Student  in  Arms;  The  Tree  of  Heaven;  Why 
Men  Fight,  by  Bertrand  Russell — I'm  hoping 
he'll  write  one  on  Why  Men  Are  Imprisoned:  you 
know  he  was  locked  up  for  his  sentiments!  And 
here's  one  of  the  most  moving  of  all — The  Letters 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        129 

of  Arthur  Heath,  a  gentle,  sensitive  young  Oxford 
tutor  who  was  killed  on  the  Western  front.  You 
ought  to  read  that  book.  It  shows  the  entire 
lack  of  hatred  on  the  part  of  the  English.  Heath 
and  his  friends,  the  night  before  they  enlisted, 
sat  up  singing  the  German  music  they  had  loved, 
as  a  kind  of  farewell  to  the  old,  friendly  joyous  life. 
Yes,  that's  the  kind  of  thing  War  does — wipes 
Out  spirits  like  Arthur  Heath.  Please  read  it. 
Then  you'll  have  to  read  Philip  Gibbs,  and  Lowes 
Dickinson  and  all  the  young  poets.  Of  course 
you've  read  Wells  already.  Everybody  has." 

"How  about  the  Americans?"  said  Titania. 
"Haven't  they  written  anything  about  the  war 
that's  worth  while?" 

"Here's  one  that  I  found  a  lot  of  meat  in, 
streaked  with  philosophical  gristle,"  said  Roger, 
relighting  his  pipe.  He  pulled  out  a  copy  of 
Professor  Latimer's  Progress.  "There  was  one 
passage  that  I  remember  marking — let's  see  now, 
what  was  it? — Yes,  here! 

"It  is  true  that,  if  you  made  a  poll  of  newspaper'editors,  you 
might  find  a  great  many  who  think  that  war  is  evil.  But  if 
you  were  to  take  a  census  among  pastors  of  fashionable  metro- 
politan churches y> 

"That's  a  bullseye  hit!  The  church  has  done 
for  itself  with  most  thinking  men.  .  .  . 


130         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

There's  another  good  passage  in  Professor  Latimer, 
where  he  points  out  the  philosophical  value  of 
dishwashing.  Some  of  Latimer's  talk  is  so  much 
in  common  with  my  ideas  that  I've  been  rather 
hoping  he'd  drop  in  here  some  day.  I'd  like  to 
meet  him.  As  for  American  poets,  get  wise  to 
Edwin  Robinson " 

There  is  no  knowing  how  long  the  bookseller's 
monologue  might  have  continued,  but  at  this 
moment  Helen  appeared  from  the  kitchen. 

"Good  gracious,  Roger!"  she  exclaimed,  "I've 
heard  your  voice  piping  away  for  I  don't  know  how 
long.  What  are  you  doing,  giving  the  poor  child 
a  Chautauqua  lecture?  You  must  want  to  frighten 
her  out  of  the  book  business." 

Roger  looked  a  little  sheepish.  "My  dear," 
he  said,  "I  was  only  laying  down  a  few  of  the 
principles  underlying  the  art  of  bookselling " 

"It  was  very  interesting,  honestly  it  was," 
said  Titania  brightly.  Mrs.  Mifflin,  in  a  blue 
check  apron  and  with  plump  arms  floury  to  the 
elbow,  gave  her  a  wink — or  as  near  a  wink  as  a 
woman  ever  achieves  (ask  the  man  who  owns 
one). 

"Whenever  Mr.  Mifflin  feels  very  low  in  his 
mind  about  the  business,"  she  said,  "he  falls  back 
on  those  highly  idealized  sentiments.  He  knows 
that  next  to  being  a  parson,  he's  got  into  the  worst 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         131 

line  there  is,  and  he  tries  bravely  to  conceal  it 
from  himself." 

"I  think  it's  too  bad  to  give  me  away  before 
Miss  Titania,"  said  Roger,  smiling,  so  Titania  saw 
this  was  merely  a  family  joke. 

"Really  truly,"  she  protested,  "I'm  having  a 
lovely  time.  I've  been  learning  all  about  Profes- 
sor Latimer  who  wrote  The  Handle  of  Europe, 
and  all  sorts  of  things.  I've  been  afraid  every 
minute  that  some  customer  would  come  in  and 
interrupt  us." 

"No  fear  of  that,"  said  Helen.  "They're 
scarce  in  the  early  morning."  She  went  back 
to  her  kitchen. 

"Well,  Miss  Titania,"  resumed  Roger.  "You 
see  what  I'm  driving  at.  I  want  to  give  people 
an  entirely  new  idea  about  bookshops.  The 
grain  of  glory  that  I  hope  will  cure  both  my  fever 
and  my  lethargicness  is  my  conception  of  the 
bookstore  as  a  power-house,  a  radiating  place  for 
truth  and  beauty.  I  insist  books  are  not  absolutely 
dead  things:  they  are  as  lively  as  those  fabulous 
dragons'  teeth,  and  being  sown  up  and  down,  may 
chance  to  spring  up  armed  men.  How  about 
Bernhardi?  Some  of  my  Corn  Cob  friends  tell 
me  books  are  just  merchandise.  Pshaw ! " 

"I  haven't  read  much  of  Bernard  Shaw,"  said 
Titania. 


132         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"Did  you  ever  notice  how  books  track  you  down 
and  hunt  you  out?  They  follow  you  like  the 
hound  in  Francis  Thompson's  poem.  They  know 
their  quarry!  Look  at  that  book  The  Education 
of  Henry  Adams!  Just  watch  the  way  it's  hound- 
ing out  thinking  people  this  winter.  And  The 
Four  Horsemen — you  can  see  it  racing  in  the  veins 
of  the  reading  people.  It's  one  of  the  uncanniest 
things  I  know  to  watch  a  real  book  on  its  career — 
it  follows  you  and  follows  you  and  drives  you  into 
a  corner  and  makes  you  read  it.  There's  a  queer 
old  book  that's  been  chasing  me  for  years:  The 
Life  and  Opinions  of  John  Buncle,  Esq.,  it's  called. 
I've  tried  to  escape  it,  but  every  now  and  then 
it  sticks  up  its  head  somewhere.  It'll  get  me  some 
day,  and  I'll  be  compelled  to  read  it.  Ten  Thou- 
sand  a  Year  trailed  me  the  same  way  until  I  sur- 
rendered. Words  can't  describe  the  cunning  of 
some  books.  You'll  think  you've  shaken  them 
off  your  trail,  and  then  one  day  some  innocent- 
looking  customer  will  pop  in  and  begin  to  talk, 
and  you'll  know  he's  an  unconscious  agent  of 
book-destiny.  There's  an  old  sea-captain  who 
drops  in  here  now  and  then.  He's  simply  the 
novels  of  Captain  Marry  at  put  into  flesh.  He 
has  me  under  a  kind  of  spell:  I  know  I  shall  have 
to  read  Peter  Simple  before  I  die,  just  because  the 
old  fellow  loves  it  so.  That's  why  I  call  this  place 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        133 

the  Haunted  Bookshop.  Haunted  by  the  ghosts 
of  the  books  I  haven't  read.  Poor  uneasy  spirits, 
they  walk  and  walk  around  me.  There's  only  one 
way  to  lay  the  ghost  of  a  book,  and  that  is  to  read 
it." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Titania.  "I 
haven't  read  much  Bernard  Shaw,  but  I  feel  I 
shall  have  to.  He  meets  me  at  every  turn,  bully- 
ing me.  And  I  know  lots  of  people  who  are  simply 
terrorized  by  H.  G.  Wells.  Every  time  one  of  his 
books  comes  out,  and  that's  pretty  often,  they're 
in  a  perfect  panic  until  they've  read  it."  I 

Roger  chuckled.  "Some  have  even  been  stam- 
peded into  subscribing  to  the  New  Republic  for 
that  very  purpose." 

"But  speaking  of  the  Haunted  Bookshop, 
what's  your  special  interest  in  that  Oliver  Crom- 
well book?" 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  you  mentioned  it,"  said  Roger. 
"I  must  put  it  back  in  its  place  on  the  shelf." 
He  ran  back  to  the  den  to  get  it,  and  just  then 
the  bell  clanged  at  the  door.  A  customer  came 
in,  and  the  one-sided  gossip  was  over  for  the  time 
being. 


CHAPTER  VH 
AUBREY  TAKES  LODGINGS 

I  AM  sensible  that  Mr.  Aubrey  Gilbert  is  by  no 
means  ideal  as  the  leading  juvenile  of  our 
piece.  The  time  still  demands  some  explana- 
tion why  the  leading  juvenile  wears  no  gold 
chevrons  on  his  left  sleeve.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
our  young  servant  of  the  Grey-Matter  Agency 
had  been  declined  by  a  recruiting  station  and  a 
draft  board  on  account  of  flat  feet;  although  I 
must  protest  that  their  flatness  detracts  not  at 
all  from  his  outward  bearing  nor  from  his  physical 
capacity  in  the  ordinary  concerns  of  amiable 
youth.  When  the  army  "turned  him  down  flat," 
as  he  put  it,  he  had  entered  the  service  of 
the  Committee  on  Public  Information,  and  had 
carried  on  mysterious  activities  in  their  behalf 
for  over  a  year,  up  to  the  time  when  the  armistice 
was  signed  by  the  United  Press.  Owing  to  a 
small  error  of  judgment  on  his  part,  now  com- 
pletely forgotten,  but  due  to  the  regrettable  delay 
of  the  German  envoys  to  synchronize  with  over- 
exuberant  press  correspondents,  the  last  three 

134 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         135 

days  of  the  war  had  been  carried  on  without  his 
active  assistance.  After  the  natural  recuperation 
necessary  on  the  12th  of  November,  he  had 
been  re-absorbed  by  the  Grey-Matter  Advertising 
Agency,  with  whom  he  had  been  connected  for 
several  years,  and  where  his  sound  and  vivacious 
qualities  were  highly  esteemed.  It  was  in  the 
course  of  drumming  up  post-war  business  that  he 
had  swung  so  far  out  of  his  ordinary  orbit  as  to 
call  on  Roger  Mifflin.  Perhaps  these  explanations 
should  have  been  made  earlier. 

At  any  rate,  Aubrey  woke  that  Saturday  morn- 
ing, about  the  time  Titania  began  to  dust  the 
pavement-boxes,  in  no  very  world-conquering 
humour.  As  it  was  a  half -holiday,  he  felt  no  com- 
punction in  staying  away  from  the  office.  The 
landlady,  a  motherly  soul,  sent  him  up  some  coffee 
and  scrambled  eggs,  and  insisted  on  having  a 
doctor  in  to  look  at  his  damage.  Several  stitches 
were  taken,  after  which  he  had  a  nap.  He  woke 
up  at  noon,  feeling  better,  though  his  head  still 
ached  abominably.  Putting  on  a  dressing  gown, 
he  sat  down  in  his  modest  chamber,  which  was 
furnished  chiefly  with  a  pipe-rack,  ash  trays,  and 
a  set  of  O.  Henry,  and  picked  up  one  of  his  favourite 
volumes  for  a  bit  of  solace.  We  have  hinted  that 
Mr.  Gilbert  was  not  what  is  called  "literary." 
His  reading  was  mostly  of  the  newsstand  sort, 


136         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

and  Printer's  Ink9  that  naive  journal  of  the  pub- 
licity professions.  His  favourite  diversion  was 
luncheon  at  the  Advertising  Club  where  he  would 
pore,  fascinated,  over  displays  of  advertising  book- 
lets, posters,  and  pamphlets  with  such  titles  as 
Tell  Your  Story  in  Bold-Face.  He  was  accustomed 
to  remark  that  "the  fellow  who  writes  the  Packard 
ads  has  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  skinned  three 
ways  from  the  Jack."  Yet  much  must  be  for- 
given this  young  man  for  his  love  of  O.  Henry. 
He  knew,  what  many  other  happy  souls  have 
found,  that  O.  Henry  is  one  of  those  rare  and 
gifted  tellers  of  tales  who  can  be  read  at  all  times. 
No  matter  how  weary,  how  depressed,  how 
shaken  in  morale,  one  can  always  find  enjoyment 
in  that  master  romancer  of  the  Cabarabian  Nights. 
"Don't  talk'to  me  of  Dickens'  Christmas  Stories" 
Aubrey  said  to  himself,  recalling  his  adventure 
in  Brooklyn.  "I'll  bet  O.  Henry's  Gift  of  the 
Magi  beats  anything  Dick  ever  laid  pen  to.  What 
a  shame  he  died  without  finishing  that  Christmas 
story  in  Rolling  Stones!  I  wish  some  boss  writer 
like  Irvin  Cobb  or  Edna  Ferber  would  take  a 
hand  at  finishing  it.  If  I  were  an  editor  I'd  hire 
someone  to  wind  up  that  yarn.  It's  a  crime  to 
have  a  good  story  like  that  lying  around  half 
written." 

He  was  sitting  in  a  soft  wreath  of  cigarette 


TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         137 

smoke  when  his  landlady  came  in  with  the  morning 
paper. 

/'Thought  you  might  like  to  see  the  Times, 
Mr.  Gilbert,"  she  said.  "I  knew  you'd  been  too 
sick  to  go  out  and  buy  one.  I  see  the  President's 
going  to  sail  on  Wednesday." 

Aubrey  threaded  his  way  through  the  news  with 
the  practiced  eye  of  one  who  knows  what  interests 
him.  Then,  by  force  of  habit,  he  carefully  scan- 
ned the  advertising  pages.  A  notice  in  the  HELP 
WANTED  columns  leaped  out  at  him. 

WANTED— For  temporary  employment  at  Hotel  Octagon,  3  chefs, 
6  experienced  cooks,  20  waiters.  Apply  chef's  office,  11  p.  m.  Tuesday. 

"Hum,"  he  thought.  "I  suppose,  to  take  the 
place  of  those  fellows  who  are  going  to  sail  on  the 
George  Washington  to  cook  for  Mr.  Wilson.  That's 
a  grand  ad  for  the  Octagon,  having  their  kitchen 
staff  chosen  for  the  President's  trip.  Gee,  I 
wonder  why  they  don't  play  that  up  in  some  real 
space?  Maybe  I  can  place  some  copy  for  them 
along  that  line." 

vAn  idea  suddenly  occurred  to  him,  and  he  went 
over  to  the  chair  where  he  had  thrown  his  over- 
coat the  night  before.  From  the  pocket  he  took 
out  the  cover  of  Carlyle's  Cromwell,  and  looked 
at  it  carefully. 

"I  wonder  what  the  jinx  is  on  this  book?"  he 


138        THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

thought.  "It's  a  queer  thing  the  way  that  fellow 
trailed  me  last  night — then  my  finding  this  in  the 
drug  store,  and  getting  that  crack  on  the  bean. 
I  wonder  if  that  neighbourhood  is  a  safe  place  for 
a  girl  to  work  in?" 

He  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  forgetting  the 
pain  in  his  head. 

"Maybe  I  ought  to  tip  the  police  off  about  this 
business,"  he  thought.  "It  looks  wrong  to  me. 
But  I  "have  a  hankering  to  work  the  thing  out  on 
my  own.  I'd  have  a  wonderful  stand-in  with  old 
man  Chapman  if  I  saved  that  girl  from  anything. 
.  .  .  I've  heard  of  gangs  of  kidnappers.  .  .  . 
No,  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  things  a  little  bit. 
I  think  that  bookseller  is  half  cracked,  anyway. 
He  doesn't  believe  in  advertising!  The  idea  of 
Chapman  trusting  his  daughter  in  a  place  like 
that " 

The  thought  of  playing  knight  errant  to  some- 
thing more  personal  and  romantic  than  an  ad- 
vertising account  was  irresistible.  "I'll  slip  over 
to  Brooklyn  as  soon  as  it  gets  dark  this  evening," 
he  said  to  himself.  "I  ought  to  be  able  to  get  a 
room  somewhere  along  that  street,  where  I  can 
watch  that  bookshop  without  being  seen,  and 
find  out  what's  haunting  it.  I've  got  that  old  .22 
popgun  of  mine  that  I  used  to  use  up  at  camp. 
I'll  take  it  along.  I'd  like  to  know  more  about 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         139 

Weintraub's  drug  store,  too.  I  didn't  fancy  the 
map  of  Herr  Weintraub,  not  at  all.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  had  no  idea  old  man  Carlyle  would  get 
mixed  up  in  anything  as  interesting  as  this." 
1  He  found  a  romantic  exhilaration  in  packing  a 
handbag.  Pyjamas,  hairbrushes,  toothbrush, 
tooth-paste — ("What  an  ad  it  would  be  for  the 
Chinese  Paste  people,"  he  thought,  "if  they  knew 
I  was  taking  a  tube  of  their  stuff  on  this  adven- 
ture!") his  .22  revolver,  a  small  green  box  of 
cartridges  of  the  size  commonly  used  for  squirrel- 
shooting,  a  volume  of  O.  Henry,  a  safety  razor 
and  adjuncts,  a  pad  of  writing  paper.  ...  At 
least  six  nationally  advertised  articles,  he  said  to 
himself,  enumerating  his  kit.  He  locked  his  bag, 
dressed,  and  went  downstairs  for  lunch.  After 
lunch  he  lay  down  for  a  rest,  as  his  head  was  still 
very  painful.  But  he  was  not  able  to  sleep. 
The  thought  of  Titania  Chapman's  blue  eyes  and 
gallant  little  figure  came  between  him  and  slumber. 
He  could  not  shake  off  the  conviction  that  some 
peril  was  hanging  over  her.  Again  and  again  he 
looked  at  his  watch,  rebuking  the  lagging  dusk. 
At  half -past  four  he  set  off  for  the  subway.  Half- 
way down  Thirty-third  Street  a  thought  struck  him. 
He  returned  to  his  room,  got  out  a  pair  of  opera 
glasses  from  his  trunk,  and  put  them  in  his  bag. 
It  was  blue  twilight  when  he  reached  Gissing 


140         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

Street.  The  block  between  Wordsworth  Avenue 
and  Hazlitt  Street  is  peculiar  in  that  on  one  side — 
the  side  where  the  Haunted  Bookshop  stands — 
the  old  brownstone  dwellings  have  mostly  been 
replaced  by  small  shops  of  a  bright,  lively  char- 
acter. At  the  Wordsworth  Avenue  corner,  where 
the  L  swings  round  in  a  lofty  roaring  curve,  stands 
Weintraub's  drug  store;  below  it,  on  the  western 
side,  a  succession  of  shining  windows  beacon 
through  the  evening.  Delicatessen  shops  with 
their  appetizing  medley  of  cooked  and  pickled 
meats,  dried  fruits,  cheeses,  and  bright  coloured 
jars  of  preserves;  small  modistes  with  generously 
contoured  wax  busts  of  coiffured  ladies;  lunch 
rooms  with  the  day's  menu  typed  and  pasted  on 
the  outer  pane;  a  French  r6tisserie  where  chickens 
turn  hissing  on  the  spits  before  a  tall  oven  of  rosy 
coals;  florists,  tobacconists,  fruit-dealers,  and  a 
Greek  candy-shop  with  a  long  soda  fountain  shin- 
ing with  onyx  marble  and  coloured  glass  lamps 
and  nickel  tanks  of  hot  chocolate;  a  stationery 
shop,  now  stuffed  for  the  holiday  trade  with 
Christmas  cards,  toys,  calendars,  and  those  queer 
little  suede-bound  volumes  of  Kipling,  Service, 
Oscar  Wilde,  and  Omar  Khayyam  that  appear 
every  year  toward  Christmas  time — such  modest 
and  cheerful  merchandising  makes  the  western 
pavement  of  Gissing  Street  a  jolly  place  when  the 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        141 

lights  are  lit.  All  the  shops  were  decorated  for 
the  Christmas  trade;  the  Christinas  issues  of  the 
magazines  were  just  out  and  brightened  the  news- 
stands with  their  glowing  covers.  This  section 
of  Brooklyn  has  a  tone  and  atmosphere  peculiarly 
French  in  some  parts:  one  can  quite  imagine  one- 
self in  some  smaller  Parisian  boulevard  frequented 
by  the  petit  bourgeois.  Midway  in  this  engaging 
and  animated  block  stands  the  Haunted  Book- 
shop. Aubrey  could  see  its  windows  lit,  and  the 
shelved  masses  of  books  within.  He  felt  a  severe 
temptation  to  enter,  but  a  certain  bashfulness 
added  itself  to  his  desire  to  act  in  secret.  There 
was  a  privy  exhilaration  in  his  plan  of  putting  the 
bookshop  under  an  unsuspected  surveillance,  and 
he  had  the  emotion  of  one  walking  on  the  frontiers 
of  adventure. 

So  he  kept  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street, 
which  still  maintains  an  unbroken  row  of  quiet 
brown  fronts,  save  for  the  movie  theatre  at  the 
upper  corner,  opposite  Weintraub's.  Some  of 
the  basements  on  this  side  are  occupied  now  by 
small  tailors,  laundries,  and  lace-curtain  cleaners 
(lace  curtains  are  still  a  fetish  in  Brooklyn),  but 
most  of  the  houses  are  still  merely  dwellings. 
Carrying  his  bag,  Aubrey  passed  the  bright  halo 
of  the  movie  theatre.  Posters  announcing  THE 
RETURN  OF  TARZAN  showed  a  kind  of  third  chapter 


142         TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

of  Genesis  scene  with  an  Eve  in  a  sports  suit, 

ADDED  ATTRACTION,  MR.  AND  MRS.   SIDNEY  DREW, 

he  read. 

A  little  way  down  the  block  he  saw  a  sign  VA- 
CANCIES in  a  parlour  window.  The  house  was 
nearly  opposite  the  bookshop,  and  he  at  once 
mounted  the  tall  steps  to  the  front  door  and  rang. 

A  fawn-tinted  coloured  girl,  of  the  kind  gener- 
ally called  "Addie,"  arrived  presently.  "Can  I 
get  a  room  here?  "  he  asked.  "I  don't  know,  you'd 
better  see  Miz'  Schiller,"  she  said,  without  rancor. 
Adopting  the  customary  compromise  of  untrained 
domestics,  she  did  not  invite  him  inside,  but  de- 
parted, leaving  the  door  open  to  show  that  there  was 
no  ill  will. 

Aubrey  stepped  into  the  hall  and  closed  the 
door  behind  him.  In  an  immense  mirror  the  pale 
cheese-coloured  flutter  of  a  gas  jet  was  remotely 
reflected.  He  noticed  the  Landseer  engraving 
hung  against  wallpaper  designed  in  facsimile  of 
large  rectangles  of  gray  stone,  and  the  usual  tele- 
phone memorandum,  for  the  usual  Mrs.  J.  F. 
Smith  (who  abides  in  all  lodging  houses)  tucked 
into  the  frame  of  the  mirror.  Will  Mrs.  Smith 
please  call  Stockton  6771,  it  said.  A  carpeted  stair 
with  a  fine  old  mahogany  balustrade  rose  into 
the  dimness.  Aubrey,  who  was  thoroughly  famil- 
iar with  lodgings,  knew  instinctively  that  the 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         143 

fourth,  ninth,  tenth,  and  fourteenth  steps  would 
be  creakers.  A  soft  musk  sweetened  the  warm, 
torpid  air:  he  divined  that  someone  was  toast- 
ing marshmallows  over  a  gas  jet.  He  knew 
perfectly  well  that  somewhere  in  the  house  would 
be  a  placard  over  a  bathtub  with  the  legend: 
Please  leave  this  tub  as  you  would  wish  to  find  it. 
Roger  Mifflin  would  have  said,  after  studying  the 
hall,  that  someone  in  the  house  was  sure  to  be 
reading  the  poems  of  Rabbi  Tagore;  but  Aubrey 
was  not  so  caustic. 

Mrs.  Schiller  came  up  the  basement  stairs,  fol- 
lowed by  a  small  pug  dog.  She  was  warm  and 
stout,  with  a  tendency  to  burst  just  under  the 
armpits.  She  was  friendly.  The  pug  made  merry 
over  Aubrey's  ankles. 

"Stop  it,  Treasure!"  said  Mrs.  Schiller. 

"Can  I  get  a  room  here?"  asked  Aubrey,  with 
great  politeness. 

"Third  floor  front's  the  only  thing  I've  got," 
she  said.  "You  don't  smoke  in  bed,  do  you? 
The  last  young  man  I  had  burned  holes  in  three 
of  my  sheets " 

Aubrey  reassured  her. 

"I  don't  give  meals." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Aubrey.     "Suits  me." 

"Five  dollars  a  week,"  she  said. 

"May  I  see  it?" 


144         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

Mrs.  Schiller  brightened  the  gas  and  led  the  way 
upstairs.  Treasure  skipped  up  the  treads  beside 
her.  The  sight  of  the  six  feet  ascending  together 
amused  Aubrey.  The  fourth,  ninth,  tenth,  and 
fourteenth  steps  creaked,  as  he  had  guessed  they 
would.  On  the  landing  of  the  second  storey  a 
transom  gushed  orange  light.  Mrs.  Schiller  was 
secretly  pleased  at  not  having  to  augment  the  gas 
on  that  landing.  Under  the  transom  and  behind  a 
door  Aubrey  could  hear  someone  having  a  bath,  with 
a  great  sloshing  of  water.  He  wondered  irrever- 
ently whether  it  was  Mrs.  J.  F.  Smith.  At  any  rate 
(he  felt  sure),  it  was  some  experienced  habitue  of 
lodgings,  who  knew  that  about  five  thirty  in  the 
afternoon  is  the  best  time  for  a  bath — before  cook- 
ing supper  and  the  homecoming  ablutions  of  other 
tenants  have  exhausted  the  hot  water  boiler. 

They  climbed  one  more  flight.  The  room  was 
small,  occupying  half  the  third-floor  frontage. 
A  large  window  opened  onto  the  street,  giving  a 
plain  view  of  the  bookshop  and  the  other  houses 
across  the  way.  A  wash-stand  stood  modestly 
inside  a  large  cupboard.  Over  the  mantel  was  the 
familiar  picture — usually,  however,  reserved  for 
the  fourth  floor  back — of  a  young  lady  having  her 
shoes  shined  by  a  ribald  small  boy. 

Aubrey  was  delighted.  "This  is  fine,"  he  said. 
"Here's  a  week  in  advance." 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         145 

Mrs.  Schiller  was  almost  disconcerted  by  the 
rapidity  of  the  transaction.  She  preferred  to 
solemnize  the  reception  of  a  new  lodger  by  a  little 
more  talk — remarks  about  the  weather,  the  diffi- 
culty of  getting  "help,"  the  young  women  guests 
who  empty  tea-leaves  down  wash-basin  pipes, 
and  so  on.  All  this  sort  of  gossip,  apparently 
aimless,  has  a  very  real  purpose:  it  enables  the 
defenceless  landlady  to  size  up  the  stranger  who 
comes  to  prey  upon  her.  She  had  hardly  had  a 
good  look  at  this  gentleman,  nor  even  knew  his 
name,  and  here  he  had  paid  a  week's  rent  and 
was  already  installed. 

Aubrey  divined  the  cause  of  her  hesitation,  and 
gave  her  his  business  card. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Gilbert,"  she  said.  "I'll  send  up 
the  girl  with  some  clean  towels  and  a  latchkey." 

Aubrey  sat  down  in  a  rocking  chair  by  the  win- 
dow, tucked  the  muslin  curtain  to  one  side,  and 
looked  out  upon  the  bright  channel  of  Gissing 
Street.  He  was  full  of  the  exhilaration  that 
springs  from  any  change  of  abode,  but  his  romantic 
satisfaction  in  being  so  close  to  the  adorable  Ti- 
tania  was  somewhat  marred  by  a  sense  of  ab- 
surdity, which  is  feared  by  young  men  more  than 
wounds  and  death.  He  could  see  the  lighted  win- 
dows of  the  Haunted  Bookshop  quite  plainly, 
but  he  could  not  think  of  any  adequate  excuse  for 


146         TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

going  over  there.  And  already  lie  realized  that  to 
be  near  Miss  Chapman  was  not  at  all  the  consola- 
tion he  had  expected  it  would  be.  He  had  a  power- 
ful desire  to  see  her.  He  turned  off  the  gas,  lit  his 
pipe,  opened  the  window,  and  focussed  the  opera 
glasses  on  the  door  of  the  bookshop.  It  brought 
the  place  tantalizingly  near.  He  could  see  the 
table  at  the  front  of  the  shop,  Roger's  bulletin 
board  under  the  electric  light,  and  one  or  two 
nondescript  customers  gleaning  along  the  shelves. 
Then  something  bounded  violently  under  the  third 
button  of  his  shirt.  There  she  was !  In  the  bright* 
prismatic  little  circle  of  the  lenses  he  could  see 
Titania.  Heavenly  creature,  in  her  white  V-necked 
blouse  and  brown  skirt,  there  she  was  looking 
at  a  book.  He  saw  her  put  out  one  arm  and 
caught  the  twinkle  of  her  wrist- watch.  In  the 
startling  familiarity  of  the  magnifying  glass  he 
could  see  her  bright,  unconscious  face,  the  merry 
profile  of  her  cheek  and  chin.  .  .  .  "The  idea 
of  that  girl  working  in  a  second-hand  bookstore!" 
he  exclaimed.  "It's  positive  sacrilege!  Old  man 
Chapman  must  be  crazy." 

He  took  out  his  pyjamas  and  threw  them  on  the 
bed;  put  his  toothbrush  and  razor  on  the  wash- 
basin, laid  hairbrushes  and  O.  Henry  on  the  bu- 
reau. Feeling  rather  serio-comic  he  loaded  his 
small  revolver  and  hipped  it.  It  was  six  o'clock, 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        147 

and  he  wound  his  watch.  He  was  a  little  uncer- 
tain what  to  do :  whether  to  keep  a  vigil  at  the  win- 
dow with  the  opera  glasses,  or  go  down  in  the  street 
where  he  could  watch  the  bookshop  more  nearly. 
In  the  excitement  of  the  adventure  he  had  for- 
gotten all  about  the  cut  on  his  scalp,  and  felt  quite 
chipper.  In  leaving  Madison  Avenue  he  had 
attempted  to  excuse  the  preposterousness  of  his 
excursion  by  thinking  that  a  quiet  week-end  in 
Brooklyn  would  give  him  an  opportunity  to  jot 
down  some  tentative  ideas  for  Daintybits  adver- 
tising copy  which  he  planned  to  submit  to  his  chief 
on  Monday.  But  now  that  he  was  here  he  felt 
the  impossibility  of  attacking  any  such  humdrum 
task.  How  could  he  sit  down  in  cold  blood  to 
devise  any  "attention-compelling"  lay-outs  for 
Daintybits  Tapioca  and  Chapman's  Cherished 
Saratoga  Chips,  when  the  daintiest  bit  of  all  was 
only  a  few  yards  away?  For  the  first  time  was 
made  plain  to  him  the  amazing  power  of  young 
women  to  interfere  with  the  legitimate  commerce 
of  the  world.  He  did  get  so  far  as  to  take  out  his 
pad  of  writing  paper  and  jot  down 

CHAPMAN'S  CHERISHED  CHIPS 

These  delicate  wafers,  crisped  by  a  secret  process,  cherish 
in  their  unique  tang  and  flavour  all  the  life-giving  nutriment 
that  has  made  the  potato  the  King  of  Vegetables 


148         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

But  the  face  of  Miss  Titania  kept  coming  between 
his  hand  and  brain.  Of  what  avail  to  flood  the 
world  with  the  Chapman  Chips  if  the  girl  herself 
should  come  to  any  harm?  "Was  this  the  face 
that  launched  a  thousand  chips?"  he  murmured, 
and  for  an  instant  wished  he  had  brought  The 
Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse  instead  of  O.  Henry. 

A  tap  sounded  at  liis  door,  and  Mrs.  Schiller 
appeared.  "Telephone  for  you,  Mr.  Gilbert," 
she  said. 

"For  me?"  said  Aubrey  in  amazement.  How 
could  it  be  for  him,  he  thought,  for  no  one  knew  he 
was  there. 

"The  party  on  the  wire  asked  to  speak  to 
the  gentleman  who  arrived  about  half  an  hour 
ago,  and  I  guess  you  must  be  the  one  he 


means." 


"Did  he  say  who  he  is? "  asked  Aubrey. 

"No,  sir." 

For  a  moment  Aubrey  thought  of  refusing  to 
answer  the  call.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that 
this  would  arouse  Mrs.  Schiller's  suspicions.  He 
ran  down  to  the  telephone,  which  stood  under  the 
stairs  in  the  front  hall. 

"Hello,"  he  said. 

"Is  this  the  new  guest?"  said  a  voice — a  deep, 
gargling  kind  of  voice. 

"Yes,"  said  Aubrey. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         149 

"Is  this  the  gentleman  that  arrived  half  an 
hour  ago  with  a  handbag?" 

"Yes;  who  are  you?" 

"I'm  a  friend,"  said  the  voice;  "I  wish  you 
well." 

"How  do  you  do,  friend  and  wellwisher,"  said 
Aubrey  genially. 

"I  schust  want  to  warn  you  that  Gissing  Street 
is  not  healthy  for  you,"  said  the  voice. 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Aubrey  sharply.  "Who  are 
you?" 

"I  am  a  friend,"  buzzed  the  receiver.  There 
was  a  harsh,  bass  note  in  the  voice  that  made  the 
diaphragm  at  Aubrey's  ear  vibrate  tinnily .  Aubrey 
grew  angry. 

"Well,  Herr  Freund,"  he  said,  "if  you're  the 
wellwisher  I  met  on  the  Bridge  last  night,  watch 
your  step.  I've  got  your  number." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  the  other  repeated, 
ponderously,  "I  am  a  friend.  Gissing  Street  is 
not  healthy  for  you."  There  was  a  click,  and  he 
had  rung  off. 

Aubrey  was  a  good  deal  perplexed.  He  re- 
turned to  his  room,  and  sat  in  the  dark  by  the  win- 
dow, smoking  a  pipe  and  thinking,  with  his  eyes 
on  the  bookshop.  There  was  no  longer  any  doubt 
in  his  mind  that  something  sinister  was  afoot.  He 
reviewed  in  memory  the  events  of  the  past  few  days. 


150         TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

It  was  on  Monday  that  a  bookloving  friend  had 
first  told  him  of  the  existence  of  the  shop  on  Giss- 
ing  Street.  On  Tuesday  evening  he  had  gone 
round  to  visit  the  place,  and  had  stayed  to  supper 
with  Mr.  Mifflin.  On  Wednesday  and  Thursday 
he  had  been  busy  at  the  office,  and  the  idea  of  an 
intensive  Daintybit  campaign  in  Brooklyn  had 
occurred  to  him.  On  Friday  he  had  dined  with 
Mr.  Chapman,  and  had  run  into  a  curious  string 
of  coincidences.  He  tabulated  them: — 

(1)  The  Lost  ad  in  the  Times  on  Friday  morning. 

(2)  The  chef  in  the  elevator  carrying  the  book  that  was  sup- 
posed to  be  lost — he  being  the  same  man  Aubrey  had 
seen  in  the  bookshop  on  Tuesday  evening. 

(3)  Seeing  the  chef  again  on  Gissing  Street. 

(4)  The  return  of  the  book  to  the  bookshop. 

(5)  Mifflin  had  said  that  the  book  had  been  stolen  from  him. 
Then  why  should  it  be  either  advertised  or  returned? 

(6)  The  rebinding  of  the  book. 

(7)  Finding  the  original  cover  of  the  book  in  Weintraub's 
drug  store. 

(8)  The  affair  on  the  Bridge. 

(9)  The  telephone  message  from  "a  friend" — a  friend  with 
an  obviously  Teutonic  voice. 

He  remembered  the  face  of  anger  and  fear  dis- 
played by  the  Octagon  chef  when  he  had  spoken 
to  him  in  the  elevator.  Until  this  oddly  menacing 
telephone  message,  he  could  have  explained  the 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         151 

attack  on  the  Bridge  as  merely  a  haphazard  foot* 
pad  enterprise;  but  now  he  was  forced  to  conclude 
that  it  was  in  some  way  connected  with  his  visits 
to  the  bookshop.  He  felt,  too,  that  in  some  un- 
known way  Weintraub's  drug  store  had  something 
to  do  with  it.  Would  he  have  been  attacked  if 
he  had  not  taken  the  book  cover  from  the  drug 
Store?  He  got  the  cover  out  of  his  bag  and  looked 
at  it  again.  It  was  of  plain  blue  cloth,  with  the 
title  stamped  in  gold  on  the  back,  and  at  the 
bottom  the  lettering  London:  Chapman  and  Hall. 
From  the  width  of  the  backstrap  it  was  evident 
that  the  book  had  been  a  fat  one.  Inside  the 
front  cover  the  figure  60  was  written  in  red 
pencil — this  he  took  to  be  Roger  Mifflin's  price 
mark.  Inside  the  back  cover  he  found  the  follow- 
ing notations — 

vol.  3—166,  174,  210,  329,  349 
329  ff.  cf.  W.  W. 

These  references  were  written  in  black  ink,  in  a 
small,  neat  hand.  Below  them,  in  quite  a  different 
script  and  in  pale. violet  ink,  was  written 

153  (3)  1,  2 

"I  suppose  these  are  page  numbers,"  Aubrey 
thought.  "I  think  I'd  better  have  a  look  at  that 
book." 


152         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

He  put  the  cover  in  his  pocket  and  went  out  for 
a  bite  of  supper.  "It's  a  puzzle  with  three  sides 
to  it,"  he  thought,  as  he  descended  the  erepitant 
stairs,  "The  Bookshop,  the  Octagon,  and  Wein- 
traub's;  but  that  book  seems  to  be  the  clue  to  the 
whole  business." 


CHAPTER  VHI 

AUBREY  GOES  TO  THE  MOVIES,  AND 
WISHES  HE  KNEW  MORE  GERMAN 

A  FEW  doors  from  the  bookshop  was  a  small 
lunchroom  named  after  the  great  city  of 
Milwaukee,  one  of  those  pleasant  refec- 
tories where  the  diner  buys  his  food  at  the  counter 
and  eats  it  sitting  in  a  flat-armed  chair.  Aubrey 
got  a  bowl  of  soup,  a  cup  of  coffee,  beef  stew,  and 
bran  muffins,  and  took  them  to  an  empty  seat  by 
the  window.  He  ate  with  one  eye  on  the  street. 
From  his  place  in  the  corner  he  could  command  the 
strip  of  pavement  in  front  of  Mifflin's  shop.  Half- 
way through  the  stew  he  saw  Roger  come  out  onto 
the  pavement  and  begin  to  remove  the  books  from 
the  boxes. 

After  finishing  his  supper  he  lit  one  of  his  "mild 
but  they  satisfy"  cigarettes  and  sat  in  the  com- 
fortable warmth  of  a  near-by  radiator.  A  large 
black  cat  lay  sprawled  on  the  next  chair.  Up  at 
the  service  counter  there  was  a  pleasant  clank  of 
stout  crockery  as  occasional  customers  came  in  and 
ordered  their  victuals.  Aubrey  began  to  feel  a 

153 


154         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

relaxation  swim  through  his  veins.  Gissing  Street 
was  very  bright  and  orderly  in  its  Saturday  even- 
ing bustle.  Certainly  it  was  grotesque  to  imagine 
melodrama  hanging  about  a  second-hand  book- 
shop in  Brooklyn.  The  revolver  felt  absurdly 
lumpy  and  uncomfortable  in  his  hip  pocket. 
What  a  different  aspect  a  little  hot  supper  gives 
to  affairs!  The  most  resolute  idealist  or  assassin 
had  better  write  his  poems  or  plan  his  atrocities 
before  the  evening  meal.  After  the  narcosis  of 
that  repast  the  spirit  falls  into  a  softer  mood, 
eager  only  to  be  amused.  Even  Milton  would 
hardly  have  had  the  inhuman  fortitude  to  sit 
down  to  the  manuscript  of  Paradise  Lost  right 
after  supper.  Aubrey  began  to  wonder  if  his 
unpleasant  suspicions  had  not  been  overdrawn. 
He  thought  how  delightful  it  would  be  to  stop  in 
at  the  bookshop  and  ask  Titania  to  go  to  the 
movies  with  him. 

Curious  magic  of  thought!  The  idea  was  still 
sparkling  in  his  mind  when  he  saw  Titania  and 
Mrs.  Mifflin  emerge  from  the  bookshop  and  pass 
briskly  in  front  of  the  lunchroom.  They  were 
talking  and  laughing  merrily:  Titania's  face,  shin- 
ing with  young  vitality,  seemed  to  him  more 
"attention-compelling"  than  any  ten-point  Caslon 
type-arrangement  he  had  ever  seen.  He  admired 
the  layout  of  her  face  from  the  standpoint  of  his 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         155 

cherished  technique.  "Just  enough  *  white  space,"2 
he  thought,  "to  set  off  her  eyes  as  the  'centre  of 
interest.'  Her  features  aren't  this  modern  bold- 
face stuff,  set  solid,"  he  said  to  himself,  thinking 
typographically.  "They're  rather  French  old- 
style  italic,  slightly  leaded.  Set  on  22-point 
body,  I  guess.  Old  man  Chapman's  a  pretty  good 
typefounder,  you  have  to  hand  it  to  him." 

He  smiled  at  this  conceit,  seized  hat  and  coat, 
and  dashed  out  of  the  lunchroom. 

Mrs.  Mfflin  and  Titania  had  halted  a  few  yards 
up  the  street,  and  were  looking  at  some  pert  little 
bonnets  in  a  window.  Aubrey  hurried  across  the 
street,  ran  up  to  the  next  corner,  recrossed,  and 
walked  down  the  eastern  pavement.  In  this  way 
he  would  meet  them  as  though  he  were  coming 
from  the  subway.  He  felt  rather  more  excited 
than  King  Albert  re-entering  Brussels.  He 
saw  them  coming,  chattering  together  in  the 
delightful  fashion  of  women  out  on  a  spree. 
Helen  seemed  much  younger  in  the  company 
of  her  companion.  "A  lining  of  pussy-willow 
taffeta  and  an  embroidered  slip-on,"  she  was 
saying. 

Aubrey  steered  onto  them  with  an  admirable 
gesture  of  surprise. 

'Well,  I  never!"  said  MrsfMifflin.  "Here's 
Mr.  Gilbert.  Were  you  coming  to  see  Roger?" 


156         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

she  added,  rather  enjoying  the  young  man's  pre- 
dicament. 

Titania  shook  hands  cordially.  Aubrey,  search- 
ing the  old-style  italics  with  the  desperate  intensity 
of  a  proofreader,  saw  no  evidence  of  chagrin  at 
seeing  him  again  so  soon. 

"Why,"  he  said  rather  lamely,  "I  was  coming 
to  see  you  all.  I — I  wondered  how  you  were 
getting  along." 

Mrs.  Mifflin  had  pity  on  him.  "We've  left 
Mr.  Mifflin  to  look  after  the  shop,"  she  said. 
"He's  busy  with  some  of  his  old  crony  customers. 
Why  don't  you  come  with  us  to  the  movies?" 

"Yes,  do,"  said  Titania.  "It's  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Sidney  Drew,  you  know  how  adorable  they 
are!" 

No  one  needs  to  be  told  how  quickly  Aubrey 
assented.  Pleasure  coincided  with  duty  in  that 
the  outer  wing  of  the  party  placed  him  next  to 
Titania. 

"Well,  how  do  you  like  bookselling?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  it's  the  greatest  fun!"  she  cried.  "But 
it'll  take  me  ever  and  ever  so  long  to  learn  about 
all  the  books.  People  ask  such  questions!  A 
woman  came  in  this  afternoon  looking  for  a  copy 
of  Blase  Tales.  How  was  I  to  know  she  wanted 
The  Blazed  Trail?" 

"You'll  get  used  to  that,"  said  Mrs.  Mifflin. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         157 

"Just  a  minute,  people,  I  want  to  stop  in  at  the 
drug  store." 

They  went  into  Weintraub's  pharmacy.  En- 
tranced as  he  was  by  the  proximity  of  Miss  Chap- 
man, Aubrey  noticed  that  the  druggist  eyed  him 
rather  queerly.  And  being  of  a  noticing  habit,' 
he  also  observed  that  when  Weintraub  had  occa- 
sion to  write  out  a  label  for  a  box  of  powdered  alum 
Mrs.  Mifflin  was  buying,  he  did  so  with  a  pale 
violet  ink. 

At  the  glass  sentry-box  in  front  of  the  theatre 
Aubrey  insisted  on  buying  the  tickets. 

"We  came  out  right  after  supper,"  said  Titania 
as  they  entered,  "so  as  to  get  in  before  the  crowd." 

It  is  not  so  easy,  however,  to  get  ahead  of  Brook- 
lyn movie  fans.  They  had  to  stand  for  several 
minutes  in  a  packed  lobby  while  a  stern  young  man 
held  the  waiting  crowd  in  check  with  a  velvet 
rope.  Aubrey  sustained  delightful  spasms  of  the 
protective  instinct  in  trying  to  shelter  Titania  from 
buffets  and  pushings.  Unknown  to  her,  his  arm 
extended  behind  her  like  an  iron  rod  to  absorb 
the  onward  impulses  of  the  eager  throng.  A 
rustling  groan  ran  through  these  enthusiasts  as 
they  saw  the  preliminary  footage  of  the  great 
Tarzan  flash  onto  the  screen,  and  realized  they 
were  missing  something.  At  last,  however,  the 
trio  got  through  the  barrier  and  found  three  seats 


158         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

well  in  front,  at  one  side.  From  this  angle  the 
flying  pictures  were  strangely  distorted,  but  Au- 
brey did  not  mind. 

"Isn't  it  lucky  I  got  here  when  I  did,"  whis- 
pered Titania.  "Mr.  Mifflin  has  just  had  a  tele- 
phone call  "from  Philadelphia  asking  him  to  go 
over  on  Monday  to  make  an  estimate  on  a  library 
that's  going  to  be  sold  so  I'll  be  able  to  look  after 
the  shop  for  him  while  he's  gone." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Aubrey,  f  "Well,  now,  I've 
got  to  be  in  Brooklyn  on  Monday,  on  business. 
Maybe  Mrs.  Mifflin  would  let  me  come  in  and  buy 
some  books  from  you." 

"Customers  always  welcome,"  said  Mrs.  Mifflin. 

"I've  taken  a  fancy  to  that  Cromwell  book," 
said  Aubrey.  "What  do  you  suppose  Mr.  Mifflin 
would  sell  it  for?" 

"I  think  that  book  must  be  valuable,"  said 
Titania.  "Somebody  came  in  this  afternoon  and 
wanted  to  buy  it,  but  Mr.  Mifflin  wouldn't  part 
with  it.  He  says  it's  one  of  his  favourites.  Gra- 
cious, what  a  weird  film  this  is!" 

The  fantastic  absurdities  of  Tarzan  proceeded 
on  the  screen,  tearing  celluloid  passions  to  tatters, 
but  Aubrey  found  the  strong  man  of  the  jungle 
coming  almost  too  close  to  his  own  imperious  in- 
stincts. Was  not  he,  too — he  thought  naively — a 
poor  Tarzan  of  the  advertising  jungle,  lost  among 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         159 

the  elephants  and  alligators  of  commerce,  and 
sighing  for  this  dainty  and  unattainable  vision  of 
girlhood  that  had  burst  upon  his  burning  gaze! 
He  stole  a  perilous  side-glance  at  her  profile,  and 
saw  the  racing  flicker  of  the  screen  reflected  in  tiny 
spangles  of  light  that  danced  in  her  eyes.  He  was 
even  so  unknowing  as  to  imagine  that  she  was  not 
aware  of  his  contemplation.  And  then  the  lights 
went  up. 

"What  nonsense,  wasn't  it?"  said  Titania. 
"I'm  so  glad  it's  over!  I  was  quite  afraid  one  of 
those  elephants  would  walk  off  the  screen  and  tread 


on  us." 


"I  never  can  understand,"  said  Helen,  "why 
they  don't  film  some  of  the  really  good  books — 
think  of  Frank  Stockton's  stuff,  how  delightful 
that  would  be.  Can't  you  imagine  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Drew  playing  in  Rudder  Grange  /" 

"Thank  goodness!"  said  Titania.  "Since  I  en- 
tered the  book  business,  that's  the  first  time  any- 
body's mentioned  a  book  that  I've  read.  Yes — 
do  you  remember  when  Pomona  and  Jonas  visit 
an  insane  asylum  on  their  honeymoon?  Do  you 
know,  you  and  Mr.  Mifflin  remind  me  a  little  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Drew." 

Helen  and  Aubrey  chuckled  at  this  innocent 
correlation  of  ideas.  Then  the  organ  began  to 
play  "O  How  I  Hate  To  Get  Up  in  the  Morning" 


160         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

and  the  ever-delightful  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Drew  ap- 
peared on  the  screen  in  one  of  their  domestic 
comedies.  Lovers  of  the  movies  may  well  date  a 
new  screen  era  from  the  day  those  whimsical  pan- 
tomimers  set  their  wholesome  and  humane  talent 
at  the  service  of  the  arc  light  and  the  lens.  Au- 
brey felt  a  serene  and  intimate  pleasure  in  watch- 
ing them  from  a  seat  beside  Titania.  He  knew 
that  the  breakfast  table  scene  shadowed  before 
them  was  only  a  makeshift  section  of  lath  propped 
up  in  some  barnlike  motion  picture  studio;  yet 
his  rocketing  fancy  imagined  it  as  some  arcadian 
suburb  where  he  and  Titania,  by  a  jugglery  of 
benign  fate,  were  bungalowed  together.  Young 
men  have  a  pioneering  imagination:  it  is  doubtful 
whether  any  young  Orlando  ever  found  himself 
side  by  side  with  Rosalind  without  dreaming  him- 
self wedded  to  her.  If  men  die  a  thousand  deaths 
before  this  mortal  coil  is  shuffled,  even  so  surely 
do  youths  contract  a  thousand  marriages  before 
they  go  to  the  City  Hall  for  a  license. 

Aubrey  remembered  the  opera  glasses,  which 
were  still  in  his  pocket,  and  brought  them  out. 
The  trio  amused  themselves  by  watching  Sidney 
Drew's  face  through  the  magnifying  lenses.  They 
were  disappointed  in  the  result,  however,  as  the 
pictures,  when  so  enlarged,  revealed  all  the  cob- 
web of  fine  cracks  on  the  film.  Mr.  Drew's  nose, 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        161 

the  most  amusing  feature  known  to  the  movies, 
lost  its  quaintness  when  so  augmented. 

"Why,"  cried  Titania,  "it  makes  his  lovely 
nose  look  like  the  map  of  Florida." 

"How  on  earth  did  you  happen  to  have  these  in 
your  pocket?"  asked  Mrs.  Mifflin,  returning  the 
glasses. 

Aubrey  was  hard  pressed  for  a  prompt  and  rea- 
sonable fib,  but  advertising  men  are  resourceful. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "I  sometimes  carry  them  with  me 
at  night  to  study  the  advertising  sky-signs.  I'm  a 
little  short  sighted.  You  see,  it's  part  of  my  busi- 
ness to  study  the  technique  of  the  electric  signs." 

After  some  current  event  pictures  the  pro- 
gramme prepared  to  repeat  itself,  and  they  went 
out.  "  Will  you  come  in  and  have  some  cocoa  with 
us?"  said  Helen  as  they  reached  the  door  of  the 
bookshop.  Aubrey  was  eager  enough  to  accept, 
but  feared  to  overplay  his  hand.  "I'm  sorry,"  he 
said,  "but  I  think  I'd  better  not.  I've  got  some 
work  to  do  to-night.  Perhaps  I  can  drop  in  on 
Monday  when  Mr.  Mifflin's  away,  and  put  coal 
on  the  furnace  for  you,  or  something  of  that  sort?" 

Mrs.  Mifflin  laughed.  "Surely!"  she  said. 
"You're  welcome  any  time."  The  door  closed 
behind  them,  and  Aubrey  fell  into  a  profound 
melancholy.  Deprived  of  the  heavenly  rhetoric 
of  her  eye,  Gissing  Street  seemed  flat  and  dull. 


162         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

.  It  was  still  early — not  quite  ten  o'clock — and  it 
occurred  to  Aubrey  that  if  he  was  going  to  patrol 
the  neighbourhood  he  had  better  fix  its  details  in 
his  head.  Hazlitt,  the  next  street  below  the  book- 
shop, proved  to  be  a  quiet  little  byway,  cheerfully 
lit  with  modest  dwellings.  A  few  paces  down 
Hazlitt  Street  a  narrow  cobbled  alley  ran  through 
to  Wordsworth  Avenue,  passing  between  the  back 
yards  of  Gissing  Street  and  Whittier  Street.  The 
alley  was  totally  dark,  but  by  counting  off  the 
correct  number  of  houses  Aubrey  identified  the 
rear  entrance  of  the  bookshop.  He  tried  the 
yard  gate  cautiously,  and  found  it  unlocked. 
Glancing  in  he  could  see  a  light  in  the  kitchen  win- 
dow and  assumed  that  the  cocoa  was  being  brewed. 
Then  a  window  glowed  upstairs,  and  he  was  thrilled 
to  see  Titiania  shining  in  the  lamplight.  She 
moved  to  the  window  and  pulled  down  the  blind. 
For  a  moment  he  saw  her  head  and  shoulders 
silhouetted  against  the  curtain;  then  the  light 
went  out. 

Aubrey  stood  briefly  in  sentimental  thought. 
If  he  only  had  a  couple  of  blankets,  he  mused,  he 
could  camp  out  here  in  Roger's  back  yard  all  night. 
Surely  no  harm  could  come  to  the  girl  while  he 
kept  watch  beneath  her  casement!  The  idea  was 
just  fantastic  enough  to  appeal  to  him.  Then, 
as  he  stood  in  the  open  gateway,  he  heard  distant 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         163 

footfalls  coming  down  the  alley,  and  a  grumble  of 
voices.  Perhaps  two  policemen  on  their  rounds, 
he  thought:  it  would  be  awkward  to  be  surprised 
skulking  about  back  doors  at  this  time  of  night. 
He  slipped  inside  the  gate  and  closed  it  gently 
behind  him,  taking  the  precaution  to  slip  the  bolt. 

The  footsteps  came  nearer,  stumbling  down  the 
uneven  cobbles  in  the  darkness.  He  stood  still 
against  the  back  fence.  To  his  amazement  the 
men  halted  outside  Mifflin's  gate,  and  he  heard 
the  latch  quietly  lifted. 

"It's  no  use,"  said  a  voice — "the  gate  is  locked. 
We  must  find  some  other  way,  my  friend." 

Aubrey  tingled  to  hear  the  rolling,  throaty  "r" 
in  the  last  word.  There  was  no  mistaking — this 
was  the  voice  of  his  "friend  and  well  wisher"  over 
the  telephone. 

The  other  said  something  in  German  in  a  hoarse 
whisper.  Having  studied  that  language  in  col- 
lege, Aubrey  caught  only  two  words — Thiir  and 
Schlussel,  which  he  knew  meant  door  and  key. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  first  voice.  "That  will 
be  all  right,  but  we  must  act  to-night.  The  damned 
thing  must  be  finished  to-morrowi,  Your  idiotic 
stupidity " 

Again  followed  some  gargling  in  German,  in  a 
rapid  undertone  too  fluent  for  Aubrey's  grasp. 
The  latch  of  the  alley  gate  clicked  once  more,  and 


164         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

his  hand  was  on  his  revolver;  but  in  a  moment  the 
two  had  passed  on  down  the  alley,  j 

The  young  advertising  agent  stood  against  the 
fence  in  silent  horror,  his  heart  bumping  heavily. 
His  hands  were  clammy,  his  feet  seemed  to  have 
grown  larger  and  taken  root.  t.What  damnable 
complot  was  this?  A  sultry  wave  of  anger  passed 
over  him.  This  bland,  slick,  talkative  book- 
seller, was  he  arranging  some  blackmailing  scheme 
to  kidnap  the  girl  and  wring  blood-money  out  of 
her  father?  And  in  league  with  Germans,  too, 
the  scoundrel!  What  an  asinine  thing  for  old 
Chapman  to  send  an  unprotected  girl  over  here 
into  the  wilds  of  Brooklyn  .  .  .  and  in  the 
meantime,  what  was  he  to  do?  Patrol  the  back 
yard  all  night?  No,  the  friend  and  well  wisher 
had  said  "We  must  find  some  other  way."  Be- 
sides, Aubrey  remembered  something  having  been 
said  about  the  old  terrier  sleeping  in  the  kitchen. 
He  felt  sure  Bock  would  not  let  any  German  in 
at  night  without  raising  the  roof.  Probably  the 
best  way  would  be  to  watch  the  front  of  the  shop. 
In  miserable  perplexity  he  waited  several  minutes 
until  the  two  Germans  would  be  well  out  of  ear- 
shot. Then  he  unbolted  the  gate  and  stole  up  the 
alley  on  tiptoe,  in  the  opposite  direction.  It  led 
into  Wordsworth  Avenue  just  behind  Weintraub's 
drug  store,  over  the  rear  of  which  hung  the  great 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        165 

girders  and  trestles  of  the  "L"  station,  a  kind  of 
Swiss  chalet  straddling  the  street  on  stilts.  <  He 
thought  it  prudent  to  make  a  detour,  so  he  turned 
east  on  Wordsworth  Avenue  until  he  reached 
Whittier  Street,  then  sauntered  easily  down  Whit- 
tier  for  a  block,  spying  sharply  for  evidences  of 
pursuit.  Brooklyn  was  putting  out  its  lights  for 
the  night,  and  all  was  quiet.  He  turned  into  Haz- 
litt  Street  and  so  back  onto  Gissing,  noticing  now 
that  the  Haunted  Bookshop  lights  were  off.  It 
was  nearly  eleven  o'clock:  the  last  audience  was 
filing  out  of  the  movie  theatre,  where  two  work- 
men were  already  perched  on  ladders  taking  down 
the  Tarzan  electric  light  sign,  to  substitute  the 
illuminated  lettering  for  the  next  feature. 

After  some  debate  he  decided  that  the  best  thing 
to  do  was  to  return  to  his  room  at  Mrs.  Schiller's, 
from  which  he  could  keep  a  sharp  watch  on  the 
front  door  of  the  bookshop.  By  good  fortune 
there  was  a  lamp  post  almost  directly  in  front  of 
Mifflin's  house,  which  cast  plenty  of  light  on  the 
little  sunken  area  before  the  door.  With  his  opera 
glasses  he  could  see  from  his  bedroom  whatever 
went  on.  As  he  crossed  the  street  he  cast  his 
eyes  upward  at  the  fagade  of  Mrs.  Schiller's  house. 
Two  windows  in  the  fourth  storey  were  lit,  and 
the  gas  burned  minutely  in  the  downstairs  hall, 
elsewhere  all  was  dark.  And  then,  as  he  glanced 


166         TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

at  the  window  of  his  own  chamber,  where  the  cur- 
tain was  still  tucked  back  behind  the  pane,  he 
noticed  a  curious  thing.  A  small  point  of  rosy 
light  glowed,  faded,  and  glowed  again  by  the  win- 
dow. Someone  was  smoking  a  cigar  in  his  room. 

Aubrey  continued  walking  in  even  stride,  as 
though  he  had  seen  nothing.  Returning  down  the 
street,  on  the  opposite  side,  he  verified  his  first 
glance.  The  light  was  still  there,  and  he  judged 
himself  not  far  out  in  assuming  the  smoker  to  be 
the  friend  and  wellwisher  or  one  of  his  gang.  He 
had  suspected  the  other  man  in  the  alley  of  being 
Weintraub,  but  he  could  not  be  sure.  A  cautious 
glance  through  the  window  of  the  drug  store 
revealed  Weintraub  at  his  prescription  counter. 
Aubrey  determined  to  get  even  with  the  guttural 
gentleman  who  was  waiting  for  him,  certainly  with 
no  affectionate  intent.  He  thanked  the  good  for- 
tune that  had  led  him  to  stick  the  book  cover  in 
his  overcoat  pocket  when  leaving  Mrs.  Schiller's. 
Evidently,  for  reasons  unknown,  someone  was  very 
anxious  to  get  hold  of  it. 

An  idea  occurred  to  him  as  he  passed  the  little 
florist's  shop,  which  was  just  closing.  He  entered 
and  bought  a  dozen  white  carnations,  and  then, 
as  if  by  an  afterthought,  asked  "Have  you  any 
wire?" 

The  florist  produced   a  spool  of  the  slender, 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         167 

tough  wire  that  is  sometimes  used  to  nip  the  buds 
of  expensive  roses,  to  prevent  them  from  blossom- 
ing too  quickly. 

"Let  me  have  about  eight  feet,"  said  Aubrey. 
"I  need  some  to-night  and  I  guess  the  hardware 
stores  are  all  closed." 

With  this  he  returned  to  Mrs.  Schiller's,  picking 
his  way  carefully  and  close  to  the  houses  so  as  to 
be  out  of  sight  from  the  upstairs  windows.  He 
climbed  the  steps  and  unlatched  the  door  with 
bated  breath.  It  was  half-past  eleven,  and  he 
wondered  how  long  he  would  have  to  wait  for  the 
wellwisher  to  descend. 

He  could  not  help  chuckling  as  he  made  his 
preparations,  remembering  an  occasion  at  college 
somewhat  similar  in  setting  though  far  less  serious 
in  purpose.  First  he  took  off  his  shoes,  laying 
them  carefully  to  one  side  where  he  could  find 
them  again  in  a  hurry.  Then,  choosing  a  banister 
about  six  feet  from  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  he 
attached  one  end  of  the  wire  tightly  to  its  base 
and  spread  the  slack  in  a  large  loop  over  two  of  the 
stair  treads.  The  remaining  end  of  the  wire  he 
passed  out  through  the  banisters,  twisting  it  into 
a  small  loop  so  that  he  could  pull  it  easily.  Then 
he  turned  out  the  hall  gas  and  sat  down  in  the 
dark  to  wait  events. 

He  sat  for  a  long  time,  in  some  nervousness  lest 


168         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

the  pug  dog  might  come  prowling  and  find  him. 
He  was  startled  by  a  lady  in  a  dressing  gown — 
perhaps  Mrs.  J.  F.  Smith — who  emerged  from  a 
ground-floor  room,  passed  very  close  to  him  in  the 
dark,  and  muttered  upstairs.  He  twitched  his 
noose  out  of  the  way  just  in  time.  Presently, 
however,  his  patience  was  rewarded.  He  heard  a 
door  squeak  above,  and  then  the  groaning  of  the 
staircase  as  someone  descended  slowly.  He  re- 
laid  his  trap  and  waited,  smiling  to  himself.  A 
clock  somewhere  in  the  house  was  chiming  twelve 
as  the  man  came  groping  down  the  last  flight,  feel- 
ing his  way  in  the  dark.  Aubrey  heard  him  swear- 
ing under  his  breath. 

At  the  precise  moment,  when  both  his  victim's 
feet  were  within  the  loop,  Aubrey  gave  the  wire  a 
gigantic  tug.  The  man  fell  like  a  safe,  crashing 
against  the  banisters  and  landing  in  a  sprawl  on 
the  floor.  It  was  a  terrific  fall,  and  shook  the 
house.  He  lay  there  groaning  and  cursing. 

Barely  retaining  his  laughter,  Aubrey  struck  a 
match  and  held  it  over  the  sprawling  figure.  The 
man  lay  with  his  face  twisted  against  one  out- 
spread arm,  but  the  beard  was  unmistakable. 
It  was  the  assistant  chef  again,  and  he  seemed 
partly  unconscious.  "Burnt  hair  is  a  grand  restora- 
tive," said  Aubrey  to  himself,  and  applied  the 
match  to  the  bush  of  beard.  He  singed  off  a  couple 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         169 

of  inches  of  it  with  intense  delight,  and  laid  his 
carnations  on  the  head  of  the  stricken  one.  Then, 
hearing  stirrings  in  the  basement,  he  gathered  up 
his  wire  and  shoes  and  fled  upstairs.  He  gained 
his  room  roaring  with  inward  mirth,  but  entered 
cautiously,  fearing  some  trap.  Save  for  a  strong 
tincture  of  cigar  smoke,  everything  seemed  cor- 
rect. Listening  at  his  door  he  heard  Mrs.  Schiller 
exclaiming  shrilly  in  the  hall,  assisted  by  yappings 
from  the  pug.  Doors  upstairs  were  opened,  and 
questions  were  called  out.  He  heard  guttural 
groans  from  the  bearded  one,  mingled  with  oaths 
and  some  angry  remark  about  having  fallen  down- 
stairs. The  pug,  frenzied  with  excitement,  yelled 
insanely.  A  female  voice — possibly  Mrs.  J.  F. 
Smith— cried  out  "What's  that  smell  of  burning?" 
Someone  else  said,  "They're  burning  feathers 
under  his  nose  to  bring  him  to." 

"Yes,  Hun's  feathers,"  chuckled  Aubrey  to 
himself..  He  locked  his  door,  and  sat  down  by  the 
window  with  his  opera  glasses. 


CHAPTER  IX 
AGAIN  THE  NARRATIVE  IS  RETARDED 

R)GER  had  spent  a  quiet  evening  in  the 
bookshop.  Sitting  at  his  desk  under  a  fog 
of  tobacco,  he  had  honestly  intended  to  do 
some  writing  on  the  twelfth  chapter  of  his  great 
work  on  bookselling.  This  chapter  was  to  be  an 
(alas,  entirely  conjectural)  "Address  Delivered  by 
a  Bookseller  on  Being  Conferred  the  Honorary 
Degree  of  Doctor  of  Letters  by  a  Leading  Univer- 
sity," and  it  presented  so  many  alluring  possibili- 
ties that  Roger's  mind  always  wandered  from  the 
paper  into  entranced  visions  of  his  imagined  scene. 
He  loved  to  build  up  in  fancy  the  flattering  details 
of  that  fine  ceremony  when  bookselling  would  at 
last  be  properly  recognized  as  one  of  the  learned 
professions.  He  could  see  the  great  auditorium, 
filled  with  cultivated  people:  men  with  Emersonian 
profiles,  ladies  whispering  behind  their  fluttering 
programmes.  He  could  see  the  academic  beadle, 
proctor,  dean  (or  whatever  he  is,  Roger  was  a  little 
doubtful)  pronouncing  the  august  words  of  pres- 
entation— 

170 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         171 

A  man  who,  in  season  and  out  of  season,  forgetting  private 
gain  for  public  weal,  has  laboured  with  Promethean  and 
sacrificial  ardour  to  instil  the  love  of  reasonable  letters  into 
countless  thousands;  to  whom,  and  to  whose  colleagues,  amid 
the  perishable  caducity  of  human  affairs,  is  largely  due  the 
pullulation  of  literary  taste;  in  honouring  whom  we  seek  to 
honour  the  noble  and  self-effacing  profession  of  which  he  is 
so  representative  a  member 

Then  he  could  see  the  modest  bookseller,  some- 
what clammy  in  his  extremities  and  lost  within 
his  academic  robe  and  hood,  nervously  fidgeting 
his  mortar-board,  haled  forward  by  ushers,  and 
tottering  rubescent  before  the  chancellor,  provost, 
president  (or  whoever  it  might  be)  who  hands  out 
the  diploma.  Then  (in  Roger's  vision)  he  could 
see  the  garlanded  bibliopole  turning  to  the  ex- 
pectant audience,  giving  his  trailing  gown  a  deft 
rearward  kick  as  the  ladies  do  on  the  stage,  and 
uttering,  without  hesitation  or  embarrassment, 
with  due  interpolation  of  graceful  pleasantry,  that 
learned  and  unlaboured  discourse  on  the  delights 
of  bookishness  that  he  had  often  dreamed  of. 
Then  he  could  see  the  ensuing  reception:  the  dis- 
tinguished savants  crowding  round;  the  plates  of 
macaroons,  the  cups  of  untasted  tea;  the  ladies 
twittering,  "Now  there's  something  I  want  to  ask 
you — why  are  there  so  many  statues  to  generals, 
admirals,  parsons,  doctors,  statesmen,  scientists, 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

artists*  and  authors*  but  no  statues  to  book* 


Contemplation  of  this  gfittering  acme  always 
lured  Roger  into  fantastic  dreams.  Brer  shoe 
he  had  travelled  country  roads,  some  years  before, 
selling  books  frt^a  a  van  drawn  by  a  fat  white  horse, 
he  had  nourished  a  secret  hope  of  some  day^  found- 
ing a  Runassus  on  Wheels  Corporation  which 
would  own  a  fleet  of  these  Tans  and  said  them  out 
into  the  rural  byways  wiiere  bookstores  are  un- 
known* He  lov^  to  imagine  a  great  map  of  New 
York  State,  with  the  dairy  location  of  eadi  travel- 
ling Bunassus  marked  by  a  coloured  pin.  He 
dreamed  of  himself,  sitting  in  some  vast  central 
of  second-hand  books,  poring  over  his 
like  a  military  chief  of  staff  and  forwarding 
of  literary  ammunition  to  various  bases 
where  Ms  vans  would  re-stock.  Hfe  idea  was  that 
nts  travelling  salesmen  could  be  recruited  largely 
bom  college  professors,  parsons,  and  newspaper 
men,  who  were  w^an-  of  their  thankless  tasks,  and 
would  welcome  an  opportunity  to  get  out  on  the 
road.  Ooe  of  his  hopes  was  that  he  might  interest 
Mr.  Chapman  in  tKi«  superb  scheme^  and  be  had  a 
vision  of  the  day  when  the  shares  of  the  Parnassus 
on  Wheels  Corporation  would  pay  a  handsome 
dividend  and  be  much  sought  after  by  serious 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        175 

These  thoughts  tamed  his  mind  toward  bis 
brother-in-law  Andrew  McGifl,  die  author  of  sev- 
eral engaging  books  on  the  joys  of  country  Jiv- 
ing, who  dwefls  at  the  Sabine  Farm  in  the  green 
dbow  of  a  Connecticut  valley.  Hie  original 
Parnassus,  a  quaint  old  bine  wagon  in  which 
Roger  had  fired  and  journeyed  and  sold  books 
over  several  thousand  miles  of  country  roads  in 

4-1.        -J  1.  ~f  •«  •  •  _  ••  j     * 

^fiy  oays  Ddore  "^y  mamaflCa  was  now  noosed  ^^ 
Andrew's  barn.  Peg;  his  fat  white  horse,  had 
lodging  there  also.  It  occurred  to  Roger  that  he 
owed  Andrew  a  letter,  and  putting  aside  his  notes 
for  the  bookseller's  collegiate  oration,  he  began 
to  write: 

THE  HATTSTED  BOOKSHOP 
163  Gissnig  Sticet,  Brooklyn, 
November  30, 19181 

MY  DEAB  AXDKEW: 
It  is  scandalous  not  to  have  thanked  yon  sooner 

for  tlu»  flrppni^t  <*8«1^  of  cider,  which  has  given  us 


been  an  a«i«mii  when  I  have  been  hard  pot  to  it 
to  keep  up  with  my  own  thonghta,  and  Fve  writ* 
\fn  no  letters  at  allr  TJla*  everyone  else  I  «• 
thinking  constantly  of  this  new  peace  that  lias 
ome  npon  ns.  I  trust  we  may  nave 
who  wffl  be  able  to  tarn  it  to  tie  benefit 


174         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

of  humanity.  I  wish  there  could  be  an  inter- 
national peace  conference  of  booksellers,  for  (you 
will  smile  at  this)  my  own  conviction  is  that  the 
future  happiness  of  the  world  depends  in  no  small 
measure  on  them  and  on  the  librarians.  I  wonder 
what  a  German  bookseller  is  like? 

I've  been  reading  The  Education  of  Henry  Adams 
and  wish  he  might  have  lived  long  enough  to  give 
us  his  thoughts  on  the  War.  I  fear  it  would  have 
bowled  him  over.  He  thcuight  that  this  is  not  a 
world  "that  sensitive  and  timid  natures  can  regard 
without  a  shudder."  What  would  he  have  said 
of  the  four-year  shambles  we  have  watched  with 
sickened  hearts? 

You  remember  my  favourite  poem — old  George 
Herbert's  Church  Porch — where  he  says — 

By  all  means  use  sometimes  to  be  alone; 

Salute  thyself;  see  what  thy  soul  doth  wear; 
Dare  to  look  in  thy  chest,  for  'tis  thine  own, 

And  tumble  up  and  down  what  thou  find'st  there — 

Well,  I've  been  tumbling  my  thoughts  up  and 
down  a  good  deal.  Melancholy,  I  suppose,  is  the 
curse  of  the  thinking  classes;  but  I  confess  my 
soul  wears  a  great  uneasiness  these  days!  The 
sudden  and  amazing  turn-over  in  human  affairs, 
dramatic,  beyond  anything  in  history,  already 
seems  to  be  taken  as  a  matter  of  course.  My  great 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         175 

fear  is  that  humanity  will  forget  the  atrocious  suf- 
ferings of  the  war,  which  have  never  been  told. 
I  am  hoping  and  praying  that  men  like  Philip 
Gibbs  may  tell  us  what  they  really  saw. 

You  will  not  agree  with  me  on  what  I  am  about 
to  say,  for  I  know  you  as  a  stubborn  Republican; 
but  I  thank  fortune  that  Wilson  is  going  to  the 
Peace  Conference.  I've  been  mulling  over  one  of 
my  favourite  books — it  lies  beside  me  as  I  write — 
Cromwell's  Letters  and  Speeches,  edited  by  Carlyle, 
with  what  Carlyle  amusingly  calls  "Elucidations." 
(Carlyle  is.  not  very  good  at  "elucidating"  any- 
thing!) I  have  heard  somewhere  or  other  that 
this  is  one  of  Wilson's  favourite  books,  and  indeed, 
there  is  much  of  the  Cromwell  in  him.  With 
what  a  grim,  covenanting  zeal  he  took  up  the  sword 
when  at  last  it  was  forced  into  his  hand!  And  I 
have  been  thinking  that  what  he  will  say  to  the 
Peace  Conference  will  smack  strongly  of  what  old 
Oliver  used  to  say  to  Parliament  in  1657  and  1658 
— "If  we  will  have  Peace  without  a  worm  in  it, 
lay  we  foundations  of  Justice  and  Righteousness." 
What  makes  Wilson  so  irritating  to  the  unthought- 
ful  is  that  he  operates  exclusively  upon  reason,  not 
upon  passion.  He  contradicts  Kipling's  famous 
lines,  which  apply  to  most  men — 

Very  rarely  will  he  squarely  push  the  logic  of  a  fact 
To  its  ultimate  conclusion  in  unmitigated  act. 


176         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

In  this  instance,  I  think,  Reason  is  going  to  win. 
I  feel  the  whole  current  of  the  world  setting  in  that 
direction. 

It's  quaint  to  think  of  old  Woodrow,  a  kind  of 
Cromwell- Wordsworth,  going  over  to  do  his  bit 
among  the  diplomatic  shell-craters.  What  I'm 
waiting  for  is  the  day  when  he'll  get  back  into 
private  life  and  write  a  book  about  it.  There's  a 
job,  if  you  like,  for  a  man  who  might  reasonably 
be  supposed  to  be  pretty  tired  in  body  and  soul! 
When  that  book  comes  out  I'll  spend  the  rest  of  my 
life  in  selling  it.  I  ask  nothing  better!  Speaking 
of  Wordsworth,  I've  often  wondered  whether 
Woodrow  hasn't  got  some  poems  concealed  some- 
where among  his  papers!  I've  always  imagined 
that  he  may  have  written  poems  on  the  sly.  And 
by  the  way,  you  needn't  make  fun  of  me  for  being 
so  devoted  to  George  Herbert.  Do  you  realize  that 
two  of  the  most  familiar  quotations  in  our  language 
come  from  his  pen,  viz. : 

Wouldst  thou  both  eat  thy  cake,  and  have  it? 
and 

Dare  to  be  true:  nothing  can  need  a  ly; 

A  fault,  which  needs  it  most,  grows  two  thereby. 

Forgive  this  tedious  sermon!  My  mind  has 
been  so  tumbled  up  and  down  this  autumn  that  I 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         177 

am  in  a  queer  state  of  mingled  melancholy  and 
exaltation.  You  know  how  much  I  live  in  and  for 
books.  Well,  I  have  a  curious  feeling,  a  kind  of 
premonition  that  there  are  great  books  coming  out 
of  this  welter  of  human  hopes  and  anguishes, 
perhaps  A  book  in  which  the  tempest-shaken  soul 
of  the  race  will  speak  out  as  it  never  has  before. 
The  Bible,  you  know,  is  rather  a  disappointment: 
it  has  never  done  for  humanity  what  it  should 
have  done.  I  wonder  why?  Walt  Whitman  is 
going  to  do  a  great  deal,  but  he  is  not  quite  what  I 
mean.  There  is  something  coming — I  don't  know 
just  what!  I  thank  God  I  am  a  bookseller, 
trafficking  in  the  dreams  and  beauties  and  curiosi- 
ties of  humanity  rather  than  some  mere  huckster 
of  merchandise.  But  how  helpless  we  all  are  when 
we  try  to  tell  what  goes  on  within  us !  I  found  this 
in  one  of  Lafcadio  Hearn's  letters  the  other  day — 
I  marked  the  passage  for  you — 

Baudelaire  has  a  touching  poem  about  an  albatross,  which 
you  would  like — describing  the  poet's  soul  superb  in  its  own 
free  azure — but  helpless,  insulted,  ugly,  clumsy  when  striving 
to  walk  on  common  earth — or  rather,  on  a  deck,  where  sailors 
torment  it  with  tobacco  pipes,  etc. 

You  can  imagine  what  evenings  I  have  here 
among  my  shelves,  now  the  long  dark  nights  are 
come!  Of  course  until  ten  o'clock,  when  I  shut 


178         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

up  shop,  I  am  constantly  interrupted — as  I  have 
been  during  this  letter,  once  to  sell  a  copy  of 
Helen's  Babies  and  once  to  sell  The  Ballad  of 
Reading  Gaol,  so  you  can  see  how  varied  are  my 
clients'  tastes!  But  later  on,  after  we  have  had 
our  evening  cocoa  and  Helen  has  gone  to  bed,  I 
prowl  about  the  place,  dipping  into  this  and  that, 
fuddling  myself  with  speculation.  How  clear  and 
bright  the  stream  of  the  mind  flows  in  those  late 
hours,  after  all  the  sediment  and  floating  trash  of 
the  day  has  drained  off!  Sometimes  I  seem  to 
coast  the  very  shore  of  Beauty  or  Truth,  and  hear 
the  surf  breaking  on  those  shining  sands.  Then 
some  offshore  wind  of  weariness  or  prejudice  bears 
me  away  again.  Have  you  ever  come  across 
Andreyev's  Confessions  of  a  Little  Man  During 
Great  Days  ?  One  of  the  honest  books  of  the  War. 
The  Little  Man  ends  his  confession  thus — 

My  anger  has  left  me,  my  -sadness  returned,  and  once  more 
the  tears  flow.  Whom  can  I  curse,  whom  can  I  judge,  when 
we  are  all  alike  unfortunate?  Suffering  is  universal;  hands 
are  outstretched  to  each  other,  and  when  they  touch  .  .  . 
the  great  solution  will  come.  My  heart  is  aglow,  and  I  stretch 
out  my  hand  and  cry,  "  Come,  let  us  join  hands !  I  love  you, 
I  love  you!" 

And  of  course,  as  soon  as  one  puts  one's  self  in 
that  frame  of  mind  someone  comes  along  and  picks 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        179 

your  pocket.  ...  I  suppose  we  must  teach 
ourselves  to  be  too  proud  to  mind  having  our 
pockets  picked! 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  the  world  is  really 
governed  by  books?  The  course  of  this  country  in 
the  War,  for  instance,  has  been  largely  determined 
by  the  books  Wilson  has  read  since  he  first  began 
to  think!  If  we  could  have  a  list  of  the  principal 
books  he  has  read  since  the  War  began,  how  inter- 
esting it  would  be. 

Here's  something  I'm  just  copying  out  to  put  up 
on  my  bulletin  board  for  my  customers  to  ponder. 
It  was  written  by  Charles  Sorley,  a  young  English- 
man who  was  killed  in  France  in  1915.  He  was 
only  twenty  years  old — 

TO  GERMANY 

You  are  blind  like  us.    Your  hurt  no  man  designed, 
And  no  man  claimed  the  conquest  of  your  land. 
But  gropers  both  through  fields  of  thought  confined 
We  stumble  and  we  do  not  understand. 
You  only  saw  your  future  bigly  planned, 
And  we,  the  tapering  paths  of  our  own  mind, 
And  in  each  other's  dearest  ways  we  stand, 
And  hiss  and  hate.    And  the  blind  fight  the  blind. 

When  it  is  peace,  then  we  may  view  again 

With  new-won  eyes  each  other's  truer  form 

And  wonder.    Grown  more  loving-kind  and  warnv 


180         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

We'll  grasp  firm  hands  and  laugh  at  the  old  pain, 
When  it  is  peace.    But  until  peace,  the  storm 
The  darkness  and  the  thunder  and  the  rain. 

Isn't  that  noble?  You  see  what  I  am  dumbly 
groping  for — some  way  of  thinking  about  the 
War  that  will  make  it  seem  (to  future  ages)  a 
purification  for  humanity  gather  than  a  mere  black- 
ness ofjstinking  cinders  and  tortured  flesh  and  men 
shot  to  ribbons  in  marshes  of  blood  and  sewage. 
Out  of  such  unspeakable  desolation  men  must  rise 
to  some  new  conception  of  national  neighbourhood. 
Lhear  so  much  apprehension  that  Germany^won't 
be  punished  sufficiently  for  her  crime.  But  how 
can  any  punishment  be  devised  or  imposed  for  such 
a  huge  panorama  of  sorrow?  I  think  she  has  al- 
ready punished  herself  horribly,  and  will  continue 
to  do  so.  My  prayer  is  that  what  we  have  gone 
through  will  startle  the  world  into  some  new 
realization  of  the  sanctity  of  life — all  life,  animal 
as  well  as  human.  Don't  you  find  that  a  visit  to  a 
zoo  can  humble  and  astound  you  with  all  that 
amazing  and  grotesque  variety  of  living  energy? 

What  is  it  that  we  find  in  every  form  of  life? 
Desire  of  some  sort — some  unexplained  motive 
power  that  impels  even  the  smallest  insect  on  its 
queer  travels.  You  must  have  watched  some 
infinitesimal  red  spider  on  a  fence  rail,  bustling 
along — why  and  whither?  Who  knows?  And 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         181 

when  you  come  to  man,  what  a  chaos  of  hungers 
and  impulses  keep  thrusting  him  through  his  cycle 
of  quaint  tasks!  And  in  every  human  heart  you 
find  some  sorrow,  some  frustration,  some  lurking 
pang.  I  often  think  of  Lafcadio  Hearn's  story  of 
his  Japanese  cook.  Hearn  was  talking  of  the 
Japanese  habit  of  not  showing  their  emotions  on 
their  faces.  His  cook  was  a  smiling,  healthy, 
agreeable-looking  young  fellow  whose  face  was 
always  cheerful.  Then  one  day,  by  chance,  Hearn 
happened  to  look  through  a  hole  in  the  wall  and 
saw  his  cook  alone.  His  face  was  not  the  same 
face.  It  was  thin  and  drawn  and  showed  strange 
lines  worn  by  old  hardships  or  sufferings.  Hearn 
thought  to  himself,  "He  will  look  just  like  that 
when  he  is  dead."  He  went  into  the  kitchen  to 
see  him,  and  instantly  the  cook  was  all  changed, 
young  and  happy  again.  Never  again  did  Hearn 
see  that  face  of  trouble;  but  he  knew  the  man  wore 
it  when  he  was  alone. 

Don't  you  think  there  is  a  kind  of  parable  there 
for  the  race  as  a  whole?  Have  you  ever  met  a 
man  without  wondering  what  shining  sorrows  he 
hides  from  the  world,  what  contrast  between  vision 
and  accomplishment  torments  him?  Behind  every 
smiling  mask  is  there  not  some  cryptic  grimace  of 
pain?  Henry  Adams  puts  it  tersely.  He  says  the 
human  mind  appears  suddenly  and  inexplicably 


182         TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

out  of  some  unknown  arid  unimaginable  void. 
It  passes  half  its  known  life  in  the  mental  chaos  of 
sleep.  Even  when  awake  it  is  a  victim  of  its  own 
ill-adjustment,  of  disease,  of  age,  of  external  sug- 
gestion, of  nature's  compulsions;  it  doubts  its  own 
sensations  and  trusts  only  in  instruments  and 
averages.  After  sixty  years  or  so  of  growing 
astonishment  the  mind  wakes  to  find  itself  looking 
blankly  into  the  void  of  death.  And,  as  Adams 
says,  that  it  should  profess  itself  pleased  by  this 
performance  is  all  that  the  highest  rules  of  good 
breeding  can  ask.  That  the  mind  should  actually 
be  satisfied  would  prove  that  it  exists  only  as 
idiocy! 

I  hope  that  you  will  write  to  tell  me  along  what 
curves  your  mind  is  moving.  For  my  own  part  I 
feel  that  we  are  on  the  verge  of  amazing  things. 
Long  ago  I  fell  back  on  books  as  the  only  perma- 
nent consolers.  They  are  the  one  stainless  and 
unimpeachable  achievement  of  the  human  race. 
It  saddens  me  to  think  that  I  shall  have  to  die  with 
thousands  of  books  unread  that  would  have  given 
me  noble  and  unblemished  happiness.  I  will  tell 
you  a  secret.  I  have  never  read  King  Lear,  and 
have  purposely  refrained  from  doing  so.  If  I 
were  ever  very  ill  I  would  only  need  to  say  to  my- 
self "You  can't  die  yet,  you  haven't  read  Lear" 
That  would  bring  me  round,  I  know  it  would. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         183 

You  see,  books  are  the  answer  to  all  our  per- 
plexities! Henry  Adams  grinds  his  teeth  at  his 
inability  to  understand  the  universe.  The  best  he 
can  do  is  to  suggest  a  "law  of  acceleration,"  which 
seems  to  mean  that  Nature  is  hustling  man  along 
at  an  ever-increasing  rate  so  that  he  will  either 
solve  all  her  problems  or  else  die  of  fever  in  the 
effort.  But  Adams'  candid  portrait  of  a  mind 
grappling  helplessly  with  its  riddles  is  so  triumph- 
antly delightful  that  one  forgets  the  futility  of  the 
struggle  in  the  accuracy  of  the  picture.  Man  is 
unconquerable  because  he  can  make  even  his  help- 
lessness so  entertaining.  His  motto  seems  to  be 
"Even  though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  make  fun  of 
Him!" 

Yes,  books  are  man's  supreme  triumph,  for  they 
gather  up  and  transmit  all  other  triumphs.  As 
Walter  de  la  Mare  writes,  "How  uncomprehend- 
ingly  must  an  angel  from  heaven  smile  on  a  poor 
human  sitting  engrossed  in  a  romance :  angled  upon 
his  hams,  motionless  in  his  chair,  spectacles  on  nose, 
his  two  feet  as  close  together  as  the  flukes  of  a 
merman's  tail,  only  his  strange  eyes  stirring  in  his 
time-worn  face." 

Well,  I've  been  scribbling  away  all  this  time  and 
haven't  given  you  any  news  whatever.  Helen 
came  back  the  other  day  from  a  visit  to  Boston 
where  she  enjoyed  herself  greatly.  To-night  she 


184         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

has  gone  out  to  the  movies  with  a  young  protegee  of 
ours,  Miss  Titania  Chapman,  an  engaging  damsel 
whom  we  have  taken  in  as  an  apprentice  book- 
seller. It's  a  quaint  idea,  done  at  the  request  of 
her  father,  Mr.  Chapman,  the  proprietor  of  Chap- 
man's Daintybits  which  you  see  advertised  every- 
where. He  is  a  great  booklover,  and  is  very  eager 
to  have  the  zeal  transmitted  to  his  daughter. 
So  you  can  imagine  my  glee  to  have  a  neophyte  of 
my  own  to  preach  books  at !  Also  it  will  enable  me 
to  get  away  from  the  shop  a  little  more.  I  had  a 
telephone  call  from  Philadelphia  this  afternoon 
asking  me  to  go  over  there  on  Monday  evening  to 
make  an  estimate  of  the  value  of  a  private  collec- 
tion that  is  to  be  sold.  I  was  rather  flattered  be- 
cause I  can't  imagine  how  they  got  hold  of  my 
name. 

Forgive  this  long,  incoherent  scrawl.  How  did 
you  like  Erewhon  f  It's  pretty  near  closing  time 
and  I  must  say  grace  over  the  day's  accounts. 

Yours  ever, 

ROGER  MIFFLIN. 


CHAPTER  X 
ROGER  RAIDS  THE  ICE-BOX 

ROGER  had  just  put  Carlyle's  Cromwell 
back  in  its  proper  place  in  the  History 
alcove  when  Helen  and  Titania  returned 
from  the  movies.  Bock,  who  had  been  dozing  un- 
der his  master's  chair,  rose  politely  and  wagged  a 
deferential  tail. 

"I  do  think  Bock  has  the  darlingest  manners," 
said  Titania. 

"Yes,"  said  Helen,  "it's  really  a  marvel  that  his 
wagging  muscles  aren't  all  worn  out,  he  has  abused 
them  so." 

"Well,"  said  Roger,  "did  you  have  a  good 
time?" 

"An  adorable  time!"  cried  Titania,  with  a  face 
and  voice  so  sparkling  that  two  musty  habitues  of 
the  shop  popped  their  heads  out  of  the  alcoves 
marked  ESSAYS  and  THEOLOGY  and  peered  in 
amazement.  One  of  these  even  went  so  far  as  to 
purchase  the  copy  of  Leigh  Hunt's  Wishing  Cap 
Papers  he  had  been  munching  through,  in  order 
to  have  an  excuse  to  approach  the  group  and 

185 


186         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

satisfy  his  bewildered  eyes.  When  Miss  Chap- 
man took  the  book  and  wrapped  it  up  for  him,  his 
astonishment  was  made  complete. 

Unconscious  that  she  was  actually  creating 
business,  Titania  resumed. 

"We  met  your  friend  Mr.  Gilbert  on  the  street/* 
she  said,  "and  he  went  to  the  movies  with  us. 
He  says  he's  coming  in  on  Monday  to  fix  the  fur- 
nace while  you're  away." 

"Well,"  said  Roger,  "these  advertising  agencies 
are  certainly  enterprising,  aren't  they?  Think  of 
sending  a  man  over  to  attend  to  my  furnace,  just 
on  the  slim  chance  of  getting  my  advertising  ac- 
count." 

"Did  you  have  a  quiet  -evening?"  said  Helen. 

"I  spent  most  of  the  time  writing  to  Andrew," 
said  Roger.  "One  amusing  thing  happened, 
though.  I  actually  sold  that  copy  of  Philip 
Dm." 

"No! "cried  Helen. 

"A  fact,"  said  Roger.  "A  man  was  looking  at 
it,  and  I  told  him  it  was  supposed  to  be  written  by 
Colonel  House.  He  insisted  on  buying  it.  But 
what  a  sell  when  he  tries  to  read  it!" 

"Did  Colonel  House  really  write  it?"  asked 
Titania. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Roger.  "I  hope  not, 
because  I  find  in  myself  a  secret  tendency  to  be- 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         187 

lieve  that  Mr.  House  is  an  able  man.  If  he  did 
write  it,  I  devoutly  hope  none  of  the  foreign  states- 
men in  Paris  will  learn  of  that  fact." 

While  Helen  and  Titania  took  off  their  wraps, 
Roger  was  busy  closing  up  the  shop.  He  went 
down  to  the  corner  with  Bock  to  mail  his  letter, 
and  when  he  returned  to  the  den  Helen  had  pre- 
pared a  large  jug  of  cocoa.  They  sat  down  by  the 
fire  to  enjoy  it. 

"  Chesterton  has  written  a  very  savage  poem 
against  cocoa,"  said  Roger,  "which  you  will  find  in 
The  Flying  Inn;  but  for  my  part  I  find  it  the  ideal 
evening  drink.  It  lets  the  mind  down  gently,  and 
paves  the  way  for  slumber.  I  have  often  noticed 
that  the  most  terrific  philosophical,  agonies  can  be 
allayed  by  three  cups  of  Mrs.  Miffiin's  cocoa. 
A  man  can  safely  read  Schopenhauer  all  even- 
ing if  he  has  a  tablespoonful  of  cocoa  and  a  tin  of 
condensed  milk  available.  Of  course  it  should  be 
made  with  condensed  milk,  which  is  the  only 
way." 

"I  had  no  idea  anything  could  be  so  good,"  said 
Titania.  "Of  course,  Daddy  makes  condensed 
milk  in  one  of  his  factories,  but  I  never  dreamed  of 
trying  it.  I  thought  it  was  only  used  by  explorers, 
people  at  the  North  Pole,  you  know." 

"How  stupid  of  me!"  exclaimed  Roger.  "I 
quite  forgot  to  tell  you !  Your  father  called  up  just 


188         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

after  you  had  gone  out  this  evening,  and  wanted 
to  know  how  you  were  getting  on." 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  Titania.  "He  must  have  been 
delighted  to  hear  I  was  at  the  movies,  on  the  second 
day  of  my  first  job !  He  probably  said  it  was  just 
like  me." 

"I  explained  that  I  had  insisted  on  your  going 
with  Mrs.  Mifflin,  because  I  felt  she  needed  the 
change." 

"I  do  hope,"  said  Titania,  "you  won't  let  Daddy 
poison  your  mind  about  me.  He  thinks  I'm  dread- 
fully frivolous,  just  because  I  look  frivolous.  But 
I'm  so  keen  to  make  good  in  this  job.  I've  been 
practicing  doing  up  parcels  all  afternoon,  so  as  to 
learn  how  to  tie  the  string  nicely  and  not  cut  it 
until  after  the  knot's  tied.  I  found  that  when  you 
cut  it  beforehand  either  you  get  it  too  short  and  it 
won't  go  round,  or  else  too  long  and  you  waste 
some.  Also  I've  learned  how  to  make  wrapping 
paper  cuffs  to  keep  my  sleeves  clean." 

"Well,  I  haven't  finished  yet,"  continued  Roger. 
"  Your  father  wants  us  all  to  spend  to-morrow  out 
at  your  home.  He  wants  to  show  us  some  books 
he  has  just  bought,  and  besides  he  thinks  maybe 
you're  feeling  homesick." 

"What,  with  all  these  lovely  books  to  read? 
Nonsense!  I  don't  want  to  go  home  for  six 
months!" 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         189 

"He  wouldn't  take  No  for  an  answer.  He's 
going  to  send  Edwards  round  with  the  car  the  first 
thing  to-morrow  morning." 

"  What  f un ! "  said  Helen.     "  It'll  be  delightful." 

"Goodness,"  said  Titania.  "Imagine  leaving 
this  adorable  bookshop  to  spend  Sunday  in  Larch- 
mont.  Well,  I'll  be  able  to  get  that  georgette 
blouse  I  forgot." 

"What  time  will  the  car  be  here?"  asked  Helen. 

"Mr.  Chapman  said  about  nine  o'clock.  He 
begs  us  to  get  out  there  as  early  as  possible,  as  he 
wants  to  spend  the  day  showing  us  his  books." 

As  they  sat  round  the  fading  bed  of  coals,  Roger 
began  hunting  along  his  private  shelves.  "Have 
you  ever  read  any  Gissing?  "  he  said. 

Titania  made  a  pathetic  gesture  to  Mrs.  Mifflin. 
"It's  awfully  embarrassing  to  be  asked  these 
things!  No,  I  never  heard  of  him." 

"Well,  as  the  street  we  live  on  is  named  after 
him,  I  think  you  ought  to,"  he  said.  He  pulled 
down  his  copy  of  The  House  of  Cobwebs.  "I'm  going 
to  read  you  one  of  the  most  delightful  short  stories 
I  know.  It's  called  'A  Charming  Family.'" 

"No,  Roger,"  said  Mrs.  Mifflin  firmly.  "Not 
to-night.  It's  eleven  o'clock,  and  I  can  see 
Titania's  tired.  Even  Bock  has  left  us  and  gone 
in  to  his  kennel.  He's  got  more  sense  than  you 
have." 


190         TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"All  right,"  said  the  bookseller  amiably. 
"Miss  Chapman,  you  take  the  book  up  with  you 
and  read  it  in  bed  if  you  want  to.  Are  you  a 
librocubicularist?  " 

Titania  looked  a  little  scandalized. 

"It's  all  right,  my  dear,"  said  Helen.  "He  only 
means  are  you  fond  of  reading  in  bed.  I've  been 
waiting  to  hear  him  work  that  word  into  the  con- 
versation. He  made  it  up,  and  he's  immensely 
proud  of  it." 

"Reading  in  bed?"  said  Titania.  "What  a 
quaint  idea!  Does  any  one  do  it?  It  never  oc- 
curred to  me.  I'm  sure  when  I  go  to  bed  I'm  far 
too  sleepy  to  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"Run  along  then,  both  of  you,"  said  Roger. 
"Get  your  beauty  sleep.  I  shan't  be  very  late." 

He  meant  it  when  he  said  it,  but  returning  to  his 
desk  at  the  back  of  the  shop  his  eye  fell  upon  his 
private  shelf  of  books  which  he  kept  there  "to 
rectify  perturbations"  as  Burton  puts  it.  On  this 
shelf  there  stood  Pilgrim9 s  Progress,  Shakespeare, 
The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  The  Home  Book  of 
Verse,  George  Herbert's  Poems,  The  Notebooks  of 
Samuel  Butler,  and  Leaves  of  Grass.  He  took  down 
The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  that  most  delightful 
of  all  books  for  midnight  browsing.  Turning  to 
one  of  his  favourite  passages — "A  Consolatory 
Digression,  Containing  the  Remedies  of  All  Man- 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         191 

ner  of  Discontents" — he  was  happily  lost  to  all 
ticking  of  the  clock,  retaining  only  such  bodily 
consciousness  a's  was  needful  to  dump,  fill,  and 
relight  his  pipe  from  time  to  time.  Solitude  is  a 
dear  jewel  for  men  whose  days  are  spent  in  the 
tedious  this-and-that  of  trade.  Roger  was  a 
glutton  for  his  midnight  musings.  To  such  tried 
companions  as  Robert  Burton  and  George  Herbert 
he  was  wont  to  exonerate  his  spirit.  It  used  to 
amuse  him  to  think  of  Burton,  the  lonely  Oxford 
scholar,  writing  that  vast  book  to  "rectify"  his 
owrAnelancholy. 

By  and  by,  turning  over  the  musty  old  pages,  he 
came  to  the  following,  on  Sleep — 

The  fittest  time  is  two  or  three  hours  after  supper,  whenas  the 
meat  is  now  settled  at  the  bottom  of  the  stomachy  and  'tis  good  to 
lie  on  the  right  side  first,  because  at  that  site  the  liver  doth  rest 
under  the  stomach,  not  molesting  any  way,  but  heating  him  as  a 
fire  doth  a  kettle,  that  is  put  to  it.  After  the  first  sleep  'tis  not 
amiss  to  lie  on  the  left  side,  that  the  meat  may  the  better  descend, 
and  sometimes  again  on  the  belly,  but  never  on  the  back.  Seven 
or  eight  hours  is  a  competent  time  for  a  melancholy  man  to 
rest 

In  that  case,  thought  Roger,  it's  time  for  me  to 
be  turning  in.  He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  found 
it  was  half-past  twelve.  He  switched  off  his  light 
and  went  back  to  the  kitchen  quarters  to  tend  the 
furnace. 


192         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

I  hesitate  to  touch  upon  a  topic  of  domestic 
bitterness,  but  candor  compels  me  to  say  that 
Roger's  evening  vigils  invariably  ended  at  the  ice>- 
box.  There  are  two  theories  as  to  this  subject  of 
ice-box  plundering,  one  of  the  husband  and  the 
other  of  the  wife.  Husbands  are  prone  to  think 
(in  their  simplicity)  that  if  they  take  a  little  of 
everything  palatable  they  find  in  the  refrigerator, 
by  thus  distributing  their  forage  over  the  viands 
the  general  effect  of  the  depradation  will  be  almost 
unnoticeable.  Whereas  wives  say  (and  Mrs. 
Mifflin  had  often  explained  to  Roger)  that  it  is 
far  better  to  take  all  of  any  one  dish  than  a  little 
of  each;  for  the  latter  course  is  likely  to  diminish 
each  item  below  the  bulk  at  which  it  is  still  useful 
as  a  left-over.  Roger,  however,  had  the  obstinate 
viciousness  of  all  good  husbands,  and  he  knew  the 
delights  of  cold  provender  by  heart.  Many  a 
stewed  prune,  many  a  mess  of  string  beans  or 
naked  cold  boiled  potato,  many  a  chicken  leg, 
half  apple  pie,  or  sector  of  rice  pudding,  had 
perished  in  these  midnight  festivals.  He  made  it  a 
point  of  honour  never  to  eat  quite  all  of  the  dish  in 
question,  but  would  pass  with  unabated  zest  from 
one  to  another.  This  habit  he  had  sternly  re- 
pressed during  the  war,  but  Mrs.  Mifflin  had  no- 
ticed that  since  the  armistice  he  had  resumed  it 
with  hearty  violence.  This  is  a  custom  which 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         193 

causes  the  housewife  to  be  confronted  the  next 
morning  with  a  tragical  vista  of  pathetic  scraps. 
Two  slices  of  beet  in  a  little  earthenware  cup,  a 
sliver  of  apple  pie  one  inch  wide,  three  prunes 
lowly  nestling  in  a  mere  trickle  of  their  own  syrup, 
and  a  tablespoonful  of  stewed  rhubarb  where  had 
been  one  of  those  yellow  basins  nearly  full — what 
can  the  most  resourceful  kitcheneer  do  with  these 
oddments?  This  atrocious  practice  cannot  be  too 
bitterly  condemned. 

But  we  are  what  we  are,  and  Roger  was  even 
more  so.  The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  always 
made  him  hungry,  and  he  dipped  discreetly  into 
various  vessels  of  refreshments,  sharing  a  few  scraps 
with  Bock  whose  pleading  brown  eye  at  these 
secret  suppers  always  showed  a  comical  realiza- 
tion of  their  shameful  and  furtive  nature.  Bock 
knew  very  well  that  Roger  had  no  business  at  the 
ice-box,  for  the  larger  outlines  of  social  law  upon 
which  every  home  depends  are  clearly  understood 
by  dogs.  But  Bock's  face  always  showed  his 
tremulous  eagerness  to  participate  in  the  sin,  and 
rather  than  have  him  stand  by  as  a  silent  and 
damning  critic,  Roger  used  to  give  him  most  of  the 
cold  potato.  The  censure  of  a  dog  is  something  no 
man  can  stand.  But  I  rove,  as  Burton  would  say. 

After  the  ice-box,  the  cellar.  Like  all  true  house- 
holders, Roger  was  fond  of  his  cellar.  It  was  some- 


194         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

thing  mouldy  of  smell,  but  it  harboured  a  well- 
stocked  little  bin  of  liquors,  and  the  florid  glow 
of  the  furnace  mouth  upon  the  concrete  floor  was  a 
great  pleasure  to  the  bookseller.  He  loved  to 
peer  in  at  the  dancing  flicker  of  small  blue  flames 
that  played  above  the  ruddy  mound  of  coals  in 
the  firebox — tenuous,  airy  little  flames  that  were 
as  blue  as  violets  and  hovered  up  and  down  in  the 
ascending  gases.  Before  blackening  the  fire  with 
a  stoking  of  coal  he  pulled  up  a  wooden  Bushmills 
box,  turned  off  the  electric  bulb  overhead,  and  sat 
there  for  a  final  pipe,  watching  the  rosy  shine  of 
the  grate.  The  tobacco  smoke,  drawn  inward  by 
the  hot  inhaling  fire,  seemed  dry  and  gray  in  the 
golden  brightness.  Bock,  who  had  pattered  down 
the  steps  after  him,  nosed  and  snooped  about  the 
cellar.  Roger  was  thinking  of  Burton's  words  on 
the  immortal  weed — 

Tobacco,  divine,  rare,  superexcellent  tobacco,  which  goes 
far  beyond  all  the  panaceas,  potable  gold,  and  philosopher's 
stones,  a  sovereign  remedy  to  all  diseases  ...  a  virtuous 
herb,  if  it  be  well  qualified,  opportunely  taken,  and  medicinally 
used;  but  as  it  is  commonly  abused  by  most  men,  which  take 
it  as  tinkers  do  ale,  'tis  a  plague,  a  mischief,  a  violent  purger 
of  goods,  lands,  health,  hellish,  devilish,  and  damned  tobacco, 
the  ruin  and  overthrow  of  body  and  soul 

Bock  was  standing  on  his  hind  legs,  looking  up 
at  the  front  wall  of  the  cellar,  in  which  two  small 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         195 

iron-grated  windows  opened  onto  the  sunken  area 
by  the  front  door  of  the  shop.  He  gave  a  low 
growl,  and  seemed  uneasy. 

"What  is  it,  Bock?"  said  Roger  placidly,  finish- 
ing his  pipe. 

Bock  gave  a  short,  sharp  bark,  with  a  curious 
note  of  protest  in  it.  But  Roger's  mind  was  still 
with  Burton. 

"Rats?"  he  said.  "Aye,  very  likely!  This  is 
Ratisbon,  old  man,  but  don't  bark  about  it.  Inci- 
dent of  the  French  Camp:  'Smiling,  the  rat  fell 
dead.'" 

Bock  paid  no  heed  to  this  persiflage,  but  prowled 
the  front  end  of  the  cellar,  looking  upward  in  curi- 
ous agitation.  He  growled  again,  softly. 

"Shhh,"  said  Roger  gently.  "Never  mind  the 
rats,  Bock.  Come  on,  we'll  stoke  up  the  fire  and 
go  to  bed.  Lord,  it's  one  o'clock." 


CHAPTER  XI 
TITANIA  TRIES  READING  IN  BED 

ABREY,  sitting  at  his  window  with  the 
opera  glasses,  soon  realized  that  he  was 
blind  weary.  Even  the  exalted  heroics  of 
romance  are  not  proof  against  fatigue,  most  potent 
enemy  of  all  who  do  and  dream.  He  had  had  a 
long  day,  coming  after  the  skull-smiting  of  the 
night  before;  it  was  only  the  frosty  air  at  the  lifted 
sash  that  kept  him  at  all  awake.  He  had  fallen 
into  a  half  drowse  when  he  heard  footsteps  coming 
down  the  opposite  side  of  the  street. 

He  had  forced  himself  awake  several  times 
before,  to  watch  the  passage  of  some  harmless 
strollers  through  the  innocent  blackness  of  the 
Brooklyn  night,  but  this  time  it  was  what  he 
sought.  The  man  stepped  stealthily,  with  a  cer- 
tain blend  of  wariness  and  assurance.  He  halted 
under  the  lamp  by  the  bookshop  door,  and  the 
glasses  gave  him  enlarged  to  Aubrey's  eye.  It 
was  Weintraub,  the  druggist. 

The  front  of  the  bookshop  was  now  entirely 
dark  save  for  a  curious  little  glimmer  down  below 

196 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         197 

the  pavement  level.  This  puzzled  Aubrey,  but  he 
focussed  his  glasses  on  the  door  of  the  shop.  He 
saw  Weintraub  pull  a  key  out  of  his  pocket,  insert 
it  very  carefully  in  the  lock,  and  open  the  door 
stealthily.  Leaving  the  door  ajar  behind  him, 
the  druggist  slipped  into  the  shop. 

"What  devil's  business  is  this?"  thought 
Aubrey  angrily.  "The  swine  has  even  got  a 
key  of  his  own.  There's  no  doubt  about  it. 
He  and  Mifflin  are  working  together  on  this 
job." 

For  a  moment  he  was  uncertain  what  to  do. 
Should  he  run  downstairs  and  across  the  street? 
Then,  as  he  hesitated,  he  saw  a  pale  beam  of  light 
over  in  the  front  left-hand  corner  of  the  shop. 
Through  the  glasses  he  could  see  the  yellow  circle 
of  a  flashlight  splotched  upon  dim  shelves  of 
books.  He  saw  Weintraub  pull  a  volume  out  of 
the  case,  and  the  light  vanished.  Another  instant 
and  the  man  reappeared  in  the  doorway,  closed  the 
door  behind  him  with  a  gesture  of  careful  silence, 
and  was  off  up  the  street  quietly  and  swiftly.  It 
was  all  over  in  a  minute.  Two  yellow  oblongs 
shone  for  a  minute  or  two  down  in  the  area  under- 
neath the  door.  Through  the  glasses  he  now  made 
out  these  patches  as  the  cellar  windows.  Then 
they  disappeared  also,  and  all  was  placid  gloom. 
In  the  quivering  light  of  the  street  lamps  he  could 


198         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

see  the  bookseller's  sign  gleaming  whitely,  with  its 
lettering  THIS  SHOP  is  HAUNTED. 

Aubrey  sat  back  in  his  chair.  "Well,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "that  guy  certainly  gave  his  shop  the 
right  name.  This  is  by  me.  I  do  believe  it's 
only  some  book-stealing  game  after  all.  I  wonder 
if  he  and  Weintraub  go  in  for  some  first-edition 
faking,  or  some  such  stunt  as  that?  I'd  give  a 
lot  to  know  what  it's  all  about." 

He  stayed  by  the  window  on  the  qui  vive,  but 
no  sound  broke  the  stillness  of  Gissing  Street.  In 
the  distance  he  could  hear  the  occasional  rumble 
of  the  Elevated  trains  rasping  round  the  curve  on 
Wordsworth  Avenue.  He  wondered  whether  he 
ought  to  go  over  and  break  into  the  shop  to  see  if 
all  was  well.  But,  like  every  healthy  young  man, 
he  had  a  horror  of  appearing  absurd.  Little  by 
little  weariness  numbed  his  apprehensions.  Two 
o'clock  clanged  and  echoed  from  distant  steeples. 
He  threw  off  his  clothes  and  crawled  into  bed. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  on  Sunday  morning  when  he 
awoke.  A  broad  swath  of  sunlight  cut  the  room 
in  half:  the  white  muslin  curtain  at  the  window 
rippled  outward  like  a  flag.  Aubrey  exclaimed 
when  he  saw  his  watch.  He  had  a  sudden  feeling 
of  having  been  false  to  his  trust.  What  had  been 
happening  across  the  way? 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         199 

He  gazed  out  at  the  bookshop.  Gissing  Street 
was  bright  and  demure  in  the  crisp  quietness  of  the 
forenoon.  Mifflin's  house  showed  no  sign  of  life. 
It  was  as  he  had  last  seen  it,  save  that  broad  green 
shades  had  been  drawn  down  inside  the  big  front 
windows,  making  it  impossible  to  look  through 
into  the  book-filled  alcoves. 

Aubrey  put  on  his  overcoat  in  lieu  of  a  dressing 
gown,  and  went  in  search  of  a  bathtub.  He  found 
the  bathroom  on  his  floor  locked,  with  sounds  of 
leisurely  splashing  within.  "Damn  Mrs.  J.  F* 
Smith,"  he  said.  He  was  about  to  descend  to  the 
storey  below,  bashfully  conscious  of  bare  feet  and 
pyjamaed  shins,  but  looking  over  the  banisters 
he  saw  Mrs.  Schiller  and  the  treasure-dog  engaged 
in  some  household  manoeuvres.  The  pug  caught 
sight  of  his  pyjama  legs  and  began  to  yap. 
Aubrey  retreated  in  the  irritation  of  a  man 
baulked  of  a  cold  tub.  He  shaved  and  dressed 
rapidly. 

On  his  way  downstairs  he  met  Mrs.  Schiller. 
He  thought  that  her  gaze  was  disapproving. 

"A  gentleman  called  to  see  you  last  night,  sir,'* 
she  said.  "He  said  he  was  very  sorry  to  miss 
you." 

"I  was  rather  late  in  getting  in,"  said  Aubrey. 
"Did  he  leave  his  name?" 

"No,  he  said  he'd  see  you  some  other  time.    He 


200         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

woke  the  whole  house  up  by  falling  downstairs," 
she  added  sourly. 

He  left  the  lodging  house  swiftly,  fearing  to  be 
seen  from  the  bookshop.  He  was  very  eager  to 
learn  if  everything  was  all  right,  but  he  did  not 
want  the  Mifflins  to  know  he  was  lodging  just  op- 
posite. Hastening  diagonally  across  the  street, 
he  found  that  the  Milwaukee  Lunch,  where  he  had 
eaten  the  night  before,  was  open.  He  went  in  and 
had  breakfast,  rejoicing  in  grapefruit,  ham  and 
eggs,  coffee,  and  doughnuts.  He  lit  a  pipe  and  sat 
by  the  window  wondering  what  to  do  next.  "It's 
damned  perplexing,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I 
stand  to  lose  either  way.  If  I  don't  do  anything, 
something  may  happen  to  the  girl;  if  I  butt  in  too 
soon  I'll  get  in  dutch  with  her.  I  wish  I  knew 
what  Weintraub  and  that  chef  are  up  to." 

The  lunchroom  was  practically  empty,  and  in 
two  chairs  near  him  the  proprietor  and  his  as- 
sistant were  sitting  talking.  Aubrey  was  sud- 
denly struck  by  what  they  said. 

"Say,  this  here,  now,  bookseller  guy  must  have 
struck  it  rich." 

"Who,Mifflin?" 

"Yeh;  did  ya  see  that  car  in  front  of  his  place 
this  morning?" 

"No." 

"Believe  me,  some  boat." 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        201 

"Musta  hired  it,  hey?    Where'd  he  go  at?" 

"I  didn't  see.  I  just  saw  the  bus  standing 
front  the  door." 

"Say,  did  you  see  that  swell  dame  he's  got  clerk- 
ing for  him?" 

"I  sure  did.  What's  he  doing,  taking  her  joy- 
riding?" 

"Shouldn't  wonder.  I  wouldn't  blame 
him " 

Aubrey  gave  no  sign  of  having  heard,  but  got  up 
and  left  the  lunchroom.  Had  the  girl  been  kid- 
napped while  he  overslept?  He  burned  with 
shame  to  think  what  a  pitiful  failure  his  knight- 
errantry  had  been.  His  first  idea  was  to  beard 
Weintraub  and  compel  him  to  explain  his  connec- 
tion with  the  bookshop.  His  next  thought  was  to 
call  up  Mr.  Chapman  and  warn  him  of  what  had 
been  going  on.  Then  he  decided  it  would  be  futile 
to  do  either  of  these  before  he  really  knew  what 
had  happened.  He  determined  to  get  into  the 
bookshop  itself,  and  burst  open  its  sinister  secret. 

He  walked  hurriedly  round  to  the  rear  alley, 
and  surveyed  the  domestic  apartments  of  the 
shop.  Two  windows  in  the  second  storey  stood 
slightly  open,  but  he  could  discern  no  signs  of 
life.  The  back  gate  was  still  unlocked,  and  he 
walked  boldly  into  the  yard. 

The  little  enclosure  was  serene  in  the  pale  winter 


202         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

sunlight.  Along  one  fence  ran  a  line  of  bushes  and 
perennials,  their  roots  wrapped  in  straw.  The 
grass  plot  was  lumpy,  the  sod  withered  to  a  tawny 
yellow  and  granulated  with  a  sprinkle  of  frost, 
Below  the  kitchen  door — which  stood  at  the  head  of 
a  flight  of  steps — was  a  little  grape  arbour  with  a 
rustic  bench  where  Roger  used  to  smoke  his  pipe 
on  summer  evenings.  At  the  back  of  this  arbour 
was  the  cellar  door.  Aubrey  tried  it,  and  found 
it  locked. 

He  was  in  no  mood  to  stick  at  trifles.  He  was 
determined  to  unriddle  the  mystery  of  the  book- 
shop. At  the  right  of  the  door  was  a  low  window, 
level  with  the  brick  pavement.  Through  the 
dusty  pane  he  could  see  it  was  fastened  only  by  a 
hook  on  the  inside.  He  thrust  his  heel  through 
the  pane.  As  the  glass  tinkled  onto  the  cellar 
floor  he  heard  a  low  growl.  He  unhooked  the 
catch,  lifted  the  frame  of  the  broken  window,  and 
looked  in.  There  was  Bock,  with  head  quizzically 
tilted,  uttering  a  rumbling  guttural  vibration 
that  seemed  to  proceed  automatically  from  his 
interior. 

Aubrey  was  a  little  dashed,  but  he  said  cheerily, 
" Hullo,  Bock!  Good  old  man!  Well,  well,  nice 
old  fellow ! "  To  his  surprise,  Bock  recognized  him 
as  a  friend  and  wagged  his  tail  slightly,  but  still 
continued  to  growl. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        203 

"I  wish  dogs  weren't  such  sticklers  for  form," 
thought  Aubrey.  "Now  if  I  went  in  by  the  front 
door,  Bock  wouldn't  say  anything.  It's  just  be- 
cause he  sees  me  coming  in  this  way  that  he's  an- 
noyed. Well,  I'll  have  to  take  a  chance." 
i  He  thrust  his  legs  in  through  the  window,  care- 
fully holding  up  the  sash  with  its  jagged  triangles 
of  glass.  It  will  never  be  known  how  severely 
Bock  was  tempted  by  the  extremities  thus  exposed 
to  him,  but  he  was  an  old  dog  and  his  martial 
instincts  had  been  undermined  by  years  of  kind- 
ness. Moreover,  he  remembered  Aubrey  perfectly 
well,  'and  the  smell  of  his  trousers  did  not  seem  at 
all  hostile.  So  he  contented  himself  with  a  small 
grumbling  of  protest.  He  was  an  Irish  terrier, 
but  there  was  nothing  Sinn  Fein  about  him. 

Aubrey  dropped  to  the  floor,  and  patted  the  dog, 
thanking  his  good  fortune.  He  glanced  about  the 
cellar  as  though  expecting  to  find  some  lurking 
horror.  Nothing  more  appalling  than  several 
cases  of  beer  bottles  met  his  eyes.  He  started 
quietly  to  go  up  the  cellar  stairs,  and  Bock,  evi- 
dently consumed  with  legitimate  curiosity,  kept 
at  his  heels. 

"Look  here,"  thought  Aubrey.  "I  don't  want 
the  dog  following  me  all  through  the  house.  If  I 
touch  anything  he'll  probably  take  a  hunk  out  of 
my  shin." 


204         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

He  unlocked  the  door  into  the  yard,  and  Bock, 
obeying  the  Irish  terrier's  natural  impulse  to 
get  into  the  open  air,  ran  outside.  Aubrey  quickly 
closed  the  door  again.  Bock's  face  appeared 
at  the  broken  window,  looking  in  with  so  quaint 
an  expression  of  indignant  surprise  that  Aubrey 
almost  laughed.  "There,  old  k  man,"  he  said, 
"it's  all  right.  I'm  just  going  to  look  around  a 
bit.", 

He  ascended  the  stairs  on  tiptoe  and  found  him- 
self  in  the  kitchen.  All  was  quiet.  An  alarm 
clock  ticked  with  a  stumbling,  headlong  hurry. 
Pots  of  geraniums  stood  on  the  window  sill.  The 
range,  with  its  lids  off  and  the  fire  carefully  nour- 
ished, radiated  a  mild  warmth.  Through  a.  dark 
little  pantry  he  entered  the  dining  room.  Still  no 
sign  of  anything  amiss.  A  pot  of  white  heather 
stood  on  the  table,  and  a  corncob  pipe  lay  on  the 
sideboard.  "This  is  the  most  innocent-looking 
kidnapper's  den  I  ever  heard  of,"  he  thought. 
"Any  moving-picture  director  would  be  ashamed 
not  to  provide  a  better  stage-set." 

At  that  instant  he  heard  footsteps  overhead. 
Curiously  soft,  muffled  footsteps.  Instantly  he 
was  on  the  alert.  Now  he  would  know  the  worst. 

A  window  upstairs  was  thrown  open.  "Bock, 
what  are  you  doing  in  the  yard?"  floated  a  voice — 
a  very  clear,  imperious  voice  that  somehow  made 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         205 

him  think  of  the  thin  ringing  of  a  fine  glass  tumbler. 
It  was  Titania. 

He  stood  aghast.  Then  he  heard  a  door  open, 
and  steps  on  the  stair.  Merciful  heaven,  the  girl 
must  not  find  him  here.  What  would  she  think? 
He  skipped  back  into  the  pantry,  and  shrank  into 
a  corner.  He  heard  the  footfalls  reach  the  bot- 
tom of  the  stairs.  There  was  a  door  into  the 
kitchen  from  the  central  hall:  it  was  not  necessary 
for  her  to  pass  through  the  pantry,  he  thought. 
He  heard  her  enter  the  kitchen. 

In  his  anxiety  he  crouched  down  beneath  the 
sink,  and  his  foot,  bent  beneath  him,  touched  a 
large  tin  tray  leaning  against  the  wall.  It  fell 
over  with  a  terrible  clang. 

"Bock!"  said  Titania  sharply,  "what  are  you 
doing?" 

Aubrey  was  wondering  miserably  whether  he 
ought  to  counterfeit  a  bark,  but  it  was  too  late  to 
do  anything.  The  pantry  door  opened,  and  Ti- 
tania looked  in. 

They  gazed  at  each  other  for  several  seconds  in 
mutual  horror.  Even  in  his  abasement,  crouch- 
ing under  a  shelf  in  the  corner,  Aubrey's  stricken 
senses  told  him  that  he  had  never  seen  so  fair  a 
spectacle.  Titania  wore  a  blue  kimono  and  a 
curious  fragile  lacy  bonnet  which  he  did  not 
understand.  Her  dark,  gold-spangled  hair  came 


206         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

down  in  two  thick  braids  across  her  shoulders. 
Her  blue  eyes  were  very  much  alive  with  amaze- 
ment and  alarm  which  rapidly  changed  into  anger. 

"Mr.  Gilbert!"  she  cried.  For  an  instant  he 
thought  she  was  going  to  laugh.  Then  a  new  ex- 
pression came  into  her  face.  Without  another 
word  she  turned  and  fled.  He  heard  her  run  up- 
stairs. A  door  banged,  and  was  locked.  A  win- 
dow was  hastily  closed.  Again  all  was  silent. 

Stupefied  with  chagrin,  he  rose  from  his 
cramped  position.  What  on  earth  was  he  to  do? 
How  could  he  explain?  He  stood  by  the  pantry 
sink  in  painful  indecision.  Should  he  slink  out 
of  the  house?  No,  he  couldn't  do  that  without 
attempting  to  explain.  And-  he  was  still  con- 
vinced that  some  strange  peril  hung  about  this 
place.  He  must  put  Titania  on  her  guard,  no  mat- 
ter how  embarrassing  it  proved.  If  only  she 
hadn't  been  wearing  a  kimono — how  much  easier 
it  would  have  been. 

He  stepped  out  into  the  hall,  and  stood  at  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs  in  the  throes  of  doubt.  After 
waiting  some  time  in  silence  he  cleared  the  huski- 
ness  from  his  throat  and  called  out: 

"Miss  Chapman!" 

There  was  no  answer,  but  he  heard  light,  rapid 
movements  above. 

"Miss  Chapman!"  he  called  again. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        207 

He  heard  the  door  opened,  and  clear  words 
edged  with  frost  came  downward.  This  time  he 
thought  of  a  thin  tumbler  with  ice  in  it. 

"Mr.  Gilbert!" 

"Yes?"  he  said  miserably. 

"Will  you  please  call  me  a  taxi?" 

Something  in  the  calm,  mandatory  tone  nettled 
him.  After  all,  he  had  acted  in  pure  good  faith. 

"With  pleasure,"  he  said,  "but  not  until  I  have 
told  you  something.  It's  very  important.  I  beg 
your  pardon  most  awfully  for  frightening  you,  but 
it's  really  very  urgent." 

There  was  a  brief  silence.     Then  she  said: 

"  Brook1  yn's  a  queer  place.  Wait  a  few  min- 
utes, please." 

Aubrey  stood  absently  fingering  the  pattern  on 
the  wallpaper.  He  suddenly  experienced  a  great 
craving  for  a  pipe,  but  felt  that  the  etiquette  of 
the  situation  hardly  permitted  him  to  smoke. 

In  a  few  moments  Titania  appeared  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs  in  her  customary  garb.  She  sat  down 
on  the  landing.  Aubrey  felt  that  everything  was 
as  bad  as  it  could  possibly  be.  If  he  could  have 
seen  her  face  his  embarrassment  would  at  least 
have  had  some  compensation.  But  the  light  from 
a  stair  window  shone  behind  her,  and  her  features 
were  in  shadow.  She  sat  clasping  her  hands  round 
her  knees.  The  light  fell  crosswise  down  the  stair- 


208         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

way,  and  he  could  see  only  a  gleam  of  brightness 
upon  her  ankle.  His'mind  unconsciously  followed 
its  beaten  paths.  "What  a  corking  pose  for  a  silk 
stocking  ad!"  he  thought.  "Wouldn't  it  make  a 
stunning  full-page  layout.  I  must  suggest  it  to  the 
Ankleshimmer  people." 

"Well?"  she  said.  Then  she  could  not  refrain 
from  laughter,  he  looked  so  hapless.  She  burst 
into  an  engaging  trill.  "Why  don't  you  light  your 
pipe?"  she  said.  "You  look  as  doleful  as  the 
Kaiser." 

"Miss  Chapman,"  he  said,  "I'm  afraid  you 
think — I  don't  know  what  you  must  think.  But 
I  broke  in  here  this  morning  because  I — well,  I 
don't  think  this  is  a  safe  place  for  you  to  be." 

"So  it  seems.  That's  why  I  asked  you  to  get  me 
a  taxi." 

"There's  something  queer  going  on  round  this 
shop.  It's  not  right  for  you  to  be  here  alone  this 
way.  I  was  afraid  something  had  happened  to 
you.  Of  course,  I  didn't  know  you  were — 

Faint  almond  blossoms  grew  in  her  cheeks. 
"I  was  reading,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Mifflfn  talks  so 
much  about  reading  in  bed,  I  thought  I'd  try  it. 
They  wanted  me  to  go  with  them  to-day  but  I 
wouldn't.  You  see,  if  I'm  going  to  be  a  book- 
seller I've  got  to  catch  up  with  some  of  this  litera- 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        209 

ture  that's  been  accumulating.  After  they  left  I 
— I — well,  I  wanted  to  see  if  this  reading  in  bed  is 
what  it's  cracked  up  to  be." 

"Where  has  Mifflin  gone?"  asked  Aubrey. 
"What  business  has  he  got  to  leave  you  here  all 
alone?" 

"I  had  Bock,"  said  Titania.  "  Gracious, 
Brooklyn  on  Sunday  morning  doesn't  seem  very 
perilous  to  me.  If  you  must  know,  he  and  Mrs. 
Mifflin  have  gone  over  to  spend  the  day  with 
father.  I  was  to  have  gone,  too,  but  I  wouldn't. 
What  business  is  it  of  yours?  You're  as  bad  as 
Morris  Finsbury  in  The  Wrong  Box.  That's  what 
I  was  reading  when  I  heard  the  dog  barking." 

Aubrey  began  to  grow  nettled.  "You  seem  to 
think  this  was  a  mere  impertinence  on  my  part," 
he  said.  "Let  me  tell  you  a  thing  or  two."  And 
he  briefly  described  to  her  the  course  of  his  ex- 
periences since  leaving  the  shop  on  Friday  even- 
ing, but  omitting  the  fact  that  he  was  lodging 
just  across  the  street. 

"There's  something  mighty  unpalatable  going 
on,"  he^said.  "At  first  I  thought  Mifflin  was  the 
goat.  I  thought  it  might  be  some  frame-up  for 
swiping  valuable  books  from  his  shop.  But  when 
I  saw  Weintraub  come  in  here  with  his  own  latch- 
key, I  got  wise.  He  and  Mifflin  are  in  cahoots, 
that's  what.  I  don't  know  what  they're  pulling 


310         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

off,  but  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  it.  You  say 
Mifflin  has  gone  out  to  see  your  father?  I  bet 
that's  just  camouflage,  to  stall  you.  I've  got  a 
great  mind  to  ring  Mr.  Chapman  up  and  tell  him 
he  "ought  to  get  you  out  of  here." 

"I  won't  hear  a  word  said  against  Mr.  Mifflin," 
said  Titania  angrily.  "He's  one  of  my  father's 
oldest  friends.  What  would  Mr.  Mifflin  say  if  he 
knew  you  had  been  breaking  into  his  house  and 
frightening  me  half  to  death?  I'm  sorry  you  got 
that  knock  on  the  head,  because  it  seems  that's 
your  weak  spot.  I'm  quite  able  to  take  care  of 
myself,  thank  you.  This  isn't  a  movie." 

"Well,  how  do  you  explain  the  actions  of  this 
man  Weintraub?"  said  Aubrey.  "Do  you  like  to 
have  a  man  popping  in  and  out  of  the  shop  at  all 
hours  of  the  night,  stealing  books?" 

"I  don't  have  to  explain  it  at  all,"  said  Titania. 
"I  think  it's  up  to  you  to  do  the  explaining. 
Weintraub  is  a  harmless  old  thing  and  he  keeps 
delicious  chocolates  that  cost  only  half  as  much  as 
what  you  get  on  Fifth  Avenue.  Mr.  Mifflin  told 
me  that  he's  a  very  good  customer.  Perhaps  his 
business  won't  let  him  read  in  the  daytime,  and  he 
comes  in  here  late  at  night  to  borrow  books.  He 
probably  reads  in  bed." 

"I  don't  think  anybody  who  talks  German 
round  back  alleys  at  night  is  a  harmless  old  thing," 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        211 

said  Aubrey.  "  I  tell  you,  your  Haunted  Bookshop 
is  haunted  by  something  worse  than  the  ghost  of 
Thomas  Carlyle.  Let  me  show  you  something." 
He  pulled  the  book  cover  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
pointed  to  the  annotations  in  it. 

"That's  Mifflin's  handwriting,"  said  Titania, 
pointing  to  the  upper  row  of  figures.  "He  puts 
notes  like  that  in  all  his  favourite  books.  They 
refer  to  pages  where  he  has  found  interesting 
things." 

"Yes,  and  that's  Weintraub's,"  said  Aubrey, 
indicating  the  numbers  in  violet  ink.  "If  that 
isn't  a  proof  of  their  complicity,  I'd  like  to  know 
what  is.  If  that  Cromwell  book  is  here,  I'd  like  to 
have  a  look  at  it." 

They  went  into  the  shop.  Titania  preceded 
him  down  the  musty  aisle,  and  it  made  Aubrey 
angry  to  see  the  obstinate,  assurance  of  her  small 
shoulders.  He  was  horribly  tempted  to  seize  her 
and  shake  her.  It  annoyed  him  to  see  her  briglit, 
unconscious  girlhood  in  that  dingy  vault  of  books. 
"She's  as  out  of  place  here  as — as  a  Packard  ad  in 
the  Liberator"  he  said  to  "himself. 

They  stood  in  the  History  alcove.  "Here  it  is," 
she  said.  "No,  it  isn't — that's  the  History  of 
Frederick  the  Great." 

There  was  a  two-inch  gap  in  the  shelf.  Crom- 
well was  gone. 


TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"Probably  Mr.  Mifflin  has  it  somewhere 
around,"  said  Titania.  "It  was  there  last  night." 

"Probably  nothing,"  said  Aubrey.  "I  tell 
you,  Weintraub  came  in  and  took  it.  I  saw  him. 
Look  here,  if  you  really  want  to  know  what  I 
think,  I'll  tell  you.  The  war's  not  over  by  a  long 
sight.  Weintraub's  a  German.  -Carlyle  was  pro- 
German — I  remember  that  much  from  college.  I 
believe  your  friend  Mifflin  is  pro-German,  too. 
I've  heard  some  of  his  talk!" 

Titania  faced  him  with  cheeks  aflame. 

"That'll  do  for  you!"  she  cried.  "Next  thing 
I  suppose  you'll  say  Daddy's  pro-German,  and 
me,  too!  I'd  like  to  see  you  say  that  to  Mr. 
Mifflin  himself." 

"I  will,  don't  worry,"  said  Aubrey  grimly.  He 
knew  now  that  he  had  put  himself  hopelessly  in 
the  wrong  in  Titania's  mind,  but  he  refused  to 
abate  his  own  convictions.  With  sinking  heart 
he  saw  her  face  relieved  against  the  shelves  of 
faded  bindings.  Her  eyes  shone  with  a  deep  and 
sultry  blue,  her  chin  quivered  with  anger. 

"Look  here,"  she  said  furiously  .f  "Either  you 
or  I  must  leave  this  place.  If  you  intend  to  stay, 
please  call  me  a  taxi." 

Aubrey  was  as  angry  as  she  was. 

"I'm  going,"  he  said.  "But  you've  got  to 
play  fair  with  me.  I  tell  you  on  my  oath,  these 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        213 

two  men,  Mifflin  and  Weintraub,  are  framing 
something  up.  I'm  going  to  get  the  goods  on 
them  and  show  you.  But  you  mustn't  put  them 
wise  that  I'm  on  their  track.  If  you  do,  of  course, 
they'll  call  it  off.  I  don't  care  what  you  think  of 
me.  You've  got  to  promise  me  that." 

"I  won't  promise  you  anything,"  she  said, 
"except  never  to  speak  to  you  again.  I  never 
saw  a  man  like  you  before — and  I've  seen  a  good 
many." 

"I  won't  leave  here  until  you  promise  me  not  to 
warn  them,"  he  retorted.  "  What  I  told  you,  I  said 
in  confidence.  They've  already  found  out  where 
I'm  lodging:  Do  you  think  this  is  a  joke?  They- 
've tried  to  put  me  out  of  the  way  twice.  .  If  you 
breathe  a  word  of  this  to  Mifflin  he'll  warn  the 
other  two." 

"You're  afraid  to  have  Mr.  Mifflin  know  you 
broke  into  his  shop,"  she  taunted. 

"You  can  think  what  you  like." 

"I  won't  promise  you  anything!"  she  burst  out. 
Then  her  face  altered.  The  defiant  little  line  of 
her  mouth  bent  and  her  strength  seemed  to  run 
out  at  each  end  of  that  pathetic  curve.  "Yes,  I 
will,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  that's  fair.  I  couldn't 
tell  Mr.  Mifflin,  anyway.  I'd  be  ashamed  to  tell 
him  how  you  frightened  me.  I  think  you're 
hateful.  I  came  over  here  thinking  I  was  going 


TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

to  have  such  a  good  time,  and  you've  spoilt  it 
all!" 

For  one  terrible  moment  he  thought  she  was 
going  to  cry.  But  he  remembered  having  seen 
heroines  cry  in  the  movies,  and  knew  it  was  only 
done  when  there  was  a  table  and  chair  handy. 

"Miss  Chapman,"  he  said,  "I'm  as  sorry  as  a 
man  can  be.  But  I  swear  I  did  what  I  did  in  all 
honesty.  If  I'm  wrong  in  this,  you  need  never 
speak  to  me  again.  If  I'm  wrong,  you — you  can 
tell  your  father  to  take  his  advertising  away  from 
the  Grey-Matter  Company.  I  can't  say  more  than 
that." 

And,  to  do  him  justice,  he  couldn't.  It  was  the 
supreme  sacrifice. 

She  let  him  out  of  the  front  door  without  an- 
other word. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AUBREY  DETERMINES  TO  GIVE  SERVICE 
THAT'S  DIFFERENT 

SELDOM  has  a  young  man  spent  a  more 
desolate  afternoon  than  Aubrey  on  that 
Sunday.  His  only  consolation  was  that 
twenty  minutes  after  he  had  left  the  bookshop  he 
saw  a  taxi  drive  up  (he  was  then  sitting  gloomily 
at  his  bedroom  window)  and  Titania  enter  it  and 
drive  away.  He  supposed  that  she  had  gone  to 
join  the  party  in  Larchmont,  and  was  glad  to 
know  that  she  was  out  of  what  he  now  called  the 
war  zone.  For  the  first  time  on  record,  O.  Henry 
failed  to  solace  him.  His  pipe  tasted  bitter  and 
brackish.  He  was  eager  to  know  \phat  Wein- 
traub  was  doing,  but  did  not  dare  make  any 
investigations  in  broad  daylight.  His  idea  was  to 
wait  until  dark.  Observing  the  Sabbath  calm  of 
the  streets,  and  the  pageant  of  baby  carriages 
wheeling  toward  Thackeray  Boulevard,  he  won- 
dered again  whether  he  had  thrown  away  this 
girl's  friendship  for  a  merely  imaginary  suspicion. 
At  last  he  could  endure  his  cramped  bedroom  no 

215 


216         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

longer.  Downstairs  someone  was  dolefully  play- 
ing a  flute,  most  horrible  of  all  tortures  to  tightened 
nerves.  While  her  lodgers  were  at  church  the 
tireless  Mrs.  Schiller  was  doing  a  little  house- 
cleaning:  he  could  hear  the  monotonous  rasp  of  a 
carpet-sweeper  passing  back  and  forth  in  an  ad- 
joining room.  He  creaked  irritably  downstairs, 
and  heard  the  usual  splashing  behind  the  bathroom 
door.  In  the  frame  of  the  hall  mirror  he  saw  a 
pencilled  note:  Will  Mrs.  Smith  please  call 
Tarkington  1565,  it  said.  Unreasonably  annoyed, 
he  tore  a  piece  of  paper  out  of  his  notebook  and 
wrote  on  it  Will  Mrs.  Smith  please  call  Bath  4200. 
Mounting  to  the  second  floor  he  tapped  on  the 
bathroom  door.  "Don't  come  in!"  cried  an 
agitated  female  voice.  He  thrust  the  memoran- 
dum under  the  door,  and  left  the  house. 

Walking  the  windy  paths  of  Prospect  Park  he 
condemned  himself  to  relentless  self-scrutiny. 
"I've  damned  myself  forever  with  her,"  he 
groaned,  "unless  I  can  prove  something."  The 
vision  of  Titania's  face  silhouetted  against  the 
shelves  of  books  came  maddeningly  to  his  mind. 
"I  was  going  to  have  such  a  good  time,  and  you've 
spoilt  it  all!"  With  what  angry  conviction  she 
had  said:  "I  never  saw  a  man  like  you  before — and 
I've  seen  a  good  many!" 

Even  in  his  disturbance  of  soul  the  familiar 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        217 

jargon  of  his  profession  came  naturally  to  utter- 
ance. "At  least  she  admits  I'm  different"  he  said 
dolefully.  He  remembered  the  first  item  hi  the 
Grey-Matter  Code,  a  neat  little  booklet  issued  by 
his  employers  for  the  information  of  their  repre- 
sentatives: 

Business  is  built  upon  Confidence.  Before  you  can  sell 
Grey-Matter  Service  to  a  Client,  you  must  sell  Yourself. 

"How  am  I  going  to  sell  myself  to  her?"  he 
wondered.  "I've  simply  got  to  deliver,  that's  all. 
I've  got  to  give  her  service  that's  different.  If  I 
fall  down  on  this,  she'll  never  speak  to  me  again. 
Not  only  that,  the  firm  will  lose  the  old  man's 
account.  It's  simply  unthinkable." 

Nevertheless,  he  thought  about  it  a  good  deal, 
stimulated  from  time  to  tune  as  in  the  course  of  his 
walk  (which  led  him  out  toward  the  faubourgs  of 
Flatbush)  he  passed  long  vistas  of  signboards, 
which  he  imagined  placarded  with  vivid  litho- 
graphs in  behalf  of  the  Chapman  prunes.  "Adam 
and  Eve  Ate  Prunes  on  Their  Honeymoon"  was  a 
slogan  that  flashed  into  his  head,  and  he  imagined  a 
magnificent  painting  illustrating  this  text.  Thus, 
in  hours  of  stress,  do  all  men  turn  for  comfort  to 
their  chosen  art.  The  poet,  battered  by  fate,  heals 
himself  in  the  niceties  of  rhyme.  The  prohibi- 


218         TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

tionist  can  weather  the  blackest  melancholia  by 
meditating  the  contortions  of  other  people's  ab- 
stinence. The  most  embittered  citizen  of  De- 
troit will  never  perish  by  his  own  hand  while  he 
has  an  automobile  to  tinker. 

Aubrey  walked  many  miles,  gradually  throwing 
his  despair  to  the  winds.  The  bright  spirits  of 
Orison  Swett  Harden  and  Ralph  Waldo  Trine, 
Dioscuri  of  Good  Cheer,  seemed  to  be  with  him 
reminding  him  that  nothing  is  impossible.  In  a 
small  restaurant  he  found  sausages,  griddle  cakes 
and  syrup.  When  he  got  back  to  Gissing  Street 
it  was  dark,  and  he  girded  his  soul  for  further 
endeavour. 

About  nine  o'clock  he  walked  up  the  alley.  He 
had  left  his  overcoat  in  his  room  at  Mrs.  Schiller's 
and  also  the  Cromwell  bookcover — having  taken 
the  precaution,  however,  to  copy  the  inscriptions 
into  his  pocket  memorandum-book.  He  noticed 
lights  in  the  rear  of  the  bookshop,  and  concluded 
that  the  Mifflins  and  their  employee  had  got  home 
safely.  Arrived  at  the  back  of  Weintraub's 
pharmacy,  he  studied  the  contours  of  the  building 
carefully. 

The  drug  store  lay,  as  we  have  explained  before, 
at  the  corner  of  Gissing  Street  and  Wordsworth 
Avenue,  just  where  the  Elevated  railway  swings  in 
a  long  curve.  The  course  of  this  curve  brought  the 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         219 

scaffolding  of  the  viaduct  out  over  the  back  roof  of 
the  building,  and  this  fact  had  impressed  itself  on 
Aubrey's  observant  eye  the  day  before.  The  front 
of  the  drug  store  stood  three  storeys,  but  in  the  rear 
it  dropped  to  two,  with  a  flat  roof  over  the  hinder 
portion.  Two  windows  looked  out  upon  this  roof. 
Weintraub's  back  yard  opened  onto  the  alley, 
but  the  gate,  he  found,  was  locked.  The  fence 
would  not  be  hard  to  scale,  but  he  hesitated  to 
make  so  direct  an  approach. 

He  ascended  the  stairs  of  the  "L"  station,  on  the 
near  side,  and  paying  a  nickel  passed  through  a 
turnstile  onto  the  platform.  Waiting  until  just 
after  a  train  had  left,  and  the  long,  windy  sweep  of 
planking  was  solitary,  he  dropped  onto  the  nar- 
row footway  that  runs  beside  the  track.  This 
required  watchful  walking,  for  the  charged  third 
rail  was  very  near,  but  hugging  the  outer  side  of  the 
path  he  proceeded  without  trouble.  Every  fifteen 
feet  or  so  a  girder  ran  sideways  from  the  track, 
resting  upon  an  upright  from  the  street  below. 
The  fourth  of  these  overhung  the  back  corner  of 
Weintraub's  house,  and  he  crawled  cautiously 
along  it.  People  were  passing  on  the  pavement 
underneath,  and  he  greatly  feared  being  dis- 
covered. But  he  reached  the  end  of  the  beam 
•without  mishap.  From  here  a  drop  of  about 
twelve  feet  would  bring  him  onto  Weintraub's 


220         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

back  roof.  For  a  moment  he  reflected  that,  once 
down  there,  it  would  be  impossible  to  return  the 
same  way.  However,  he  decided  to  risk  it. 
Where  he  was,  with  his  legs  swinging  astride  the 
girder,  he  was  in  serious  danger  of  attracting 
attention. 

He  would  have  given  a  great  deal,  just  then,  to 
have  his  overcoat  with  him,  for  by  lowering  it 
first  he  could  have  jumped  onto  it  and  muffled  the 
noise  of  his  fall.  He  took  off  his  coat  and  care- 
fully dropped  it  on  the  corner  of  the  roof.  Then 
cannily  waiting  until  a  tram  passed  overhead, 
drowning  all  other  sounds  with  its  roar,  he  lowered 
himself  as  far  as  he  could  hang  by  his  hands,  and 
let  go. 

For  some  minutes  he  lay  prone  on  the  tin  roof, 
and  during  that  time  a  number  of  distressing  ideas 
occurred  to  him.  If  he  really  expected  to  get  into 
Weintraub's  house,  why  had  he  not  laid  his  plans 
more  carefully?  Why  (for  instance)  had  he  not 
made  some  attempt  to  find  out  how  many  there 
were  in  the  household?  Why  had  he  not  ar- 
ranged with  one  of  his  friends  to  call  Weintraub 
to  the  telephone  at  a  given  moment,  so  that  he 
could  be  more  sure  of  making  an  entry  unnoticed. 
And  what  did  he  expect  to  see  or  do  if  he  got  inside 
the  house?  He  found  no  answer  to  any  of  these 
questions. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

It  was  unpleasantly  cold,  and  he  was  glad  to 
slip  his  coat  on  again.  The  small  revolver  was 
still  in  his  hip  pocket.  Another  thought  occurred 
to  him — that  he  should  have  provided  himself 
with  tennis  shoes.  However,  it  was  some  com- 
fort to  know  that  rubber  heels  of  a  nationally 
advertised  brand  were  under  him.  He  crawled 
quietly  up  to  the  sill  of  one  of  the  windows.  It  was 
closed,  and  the  room  inside  was  dark.  A  blind  was 
pulled  most  of  the  way  down,  leaving  a  gap  of 
about  four  inches.  Peeping  cautiously  over  the 
sill,  he  could  see  farther  inside  the  house  a  brightly 
lit  door  and  a  passageway. 

"One  thing  I've  got  to  look  out  for,"  he  thought, 
"is  children.  There  are  bound  to  be  some — 
who  ever  heard  of  a  German  without  offspring? 
If  I  wake  them,  they'll  bawl.  This  room  is  very 
likely  a  nursery,  as  it's  on  the  southeastern  side. 
Also,  the  window  is  shut  tight,  which  is  probably 
the  German  idea  of  bedroom  ventilation." 

His  guess  may  not  have  been  a  bad  one,  for 
after  his  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  dimness 
of  the  room  he  thought  he  could  perceive  two 
cot  beds.  He  then  crawled  over  to  the  other 
window.  Here  the  blind  was  pulled  down  flush 
with  the  bottom  of  the  sash.  Trying  the  window 
very  cautiously,  he  found  it  locked.  Not  knowing 
just  what  to  do,  he  returned  to  the  first  window, 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

and  lay  there  peering  in.  The  sill  was  just  high 
enough  above  the  roof  level  to  make  it  necessary 
to  raise  himself  a  little  on  his  hands  to  see  inside, 
and  the  position  was  very  trying.  Moreover,  the 
tin  roof  had  a  tendency  to  crumple  noisily  when 
he  moved.  He  lay  for  some  time,  shivering  in 
the  chill,  and  wondering  whether  it  would  be 
safe  to  light  a  pipe. 

"There's  another  thing  I'd  better  look  out  for," 
he  thought,  "and  that's  a  dog.  Who  ever  heard 
of  a  German  without  a  dachshund?" 

He  had  watched  the  lighted  doorway  for  a  long 
while  without  seeing  anything,  and  was  beginning 
to  think  he  was  losing  time  to  no  profit  when  a 
stout  and  not  ill-natured  looking  woman  appeared 
in  the  hallway.  She  came  into  the  room  he  was 
studying,  and  closed  the  door.  She  switched  on 
the  light,  and  to  his  horror  began  to  disrobe. 
This  was  not  what  he  had  counted  on  at  all,  and 
he  retreated  rapidly.  It  was  plain  that  nothing 
was  to  be  gained  where  he  was.  He  sat  timidly 
at  one  edge  of  the  roof  and  wondered  what  to  do 
next. 

As  he  sat  there,  the  back  door  opened  almost 
directly  below  him,  and  he  heard  the  clang  of  a 
garbage  can  set  out  by  the  stoop.  The  door  stood 
open  for  perhaps  half  a  minute,  and  he  heard  a 
male  voice — Weintraub's,  he  thought — speaking 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

in  German.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  yearned 
for  the  society  of  his  German  instructor  at  college, 
and^also  wondered — in  the  rapid  irrelevance  of 
thought — what  that  worthy  man  was  now  doing 
to  earn  a  living.  In  a  rather  long  and  poorly 
lubricated  sentence,  heavily  verbed  at  the  end,  he 
distinguished  one  phrase  that  seemed  important. 
"Nach\  Philadelphia  gehen"—"Go  to  Philadel- 
phia." ^ 

Did  that  refer  to  Mifflin?  he  wondered. 

The  door  closed  again.  Leaning  over  the  rain- 
gutter,  he  saw  the  light  go  out  in  the  kitchen. 
He  tried  to  look  through  the  upper  portion  of  the 
window  just  below  him,  but  leaning  out  too  far, 
the  tin  spout  gave  beneath  his  hands.  Without 
knowing  just  how  he  did  it,  he  slithered  down  the 
side  of  the  wall,  and  found,  his  feet  on  a  window- 
sill.  His  hands  still  clung  to  the  tin  gutter  above. 
He  made  haste  to  climb  down  from  his  position, 
and  found  himself  outside  the  back  door.  He  had 
managed  the  descent  rather  more  quietly  than  if 
it  had  been  carefully  planned.  But  he  was  badly 
startled,  and  retreated  to  the  bottom  of  the  yard 
to  see  if  he  had  aroused  notice. 

A  wait  of  several  minutes  brought  no  alarm,  and 
he  plucked  up  courage.  On  the  inner  side  of  the 
house — away  from  Wordsworth  Avenue — a  nar- 
row paved  passage  led  to-  an  outside  cellar-way 


224         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

with  old-fashioned  slanting  doors.  He  recon- 
noitred this  warily.  A  bright  light  was  shining 
from  a  window  in  this  alley.  He  crept  below  it 
on  hands  and  knees  fearing  to  look  in  until  he  had 
investigated  a  little.  He  found  that  one  flap  of 
the  cellar  doqr  was  open,  and  poked  his  nose  into 
the  aperture.  All  was  dark  below,  but  a  strong, 
damp  stench  of  paints  and  chemicals  aiose.  He 
sniffed  gingerly.  "I  suppose  he  stores  drugs  down 
there,"  he  thought. 

Very  carefully  he  crawled  back,  on  hands  and 
knees,  toward  the  lighted  window.  Lifting  his 
head  a  few  inches  at  a  time,  finally  he  got  his  eyes 
above  the  level  of  the  sill.  To  his  disappointment 
he  found  the  lower  half  of  the  window  frosted. 
As  he  knelt  there,  a  pipe  set  in  the  wall  suddenly 
vomited  liquid  which  gushed  out  upon  his  knees. 
He  sniffed  it,  and  again  smelled  a  strong  aroma 
of  acids.  With  great  care,  leaning  against  the 
brick  wall  of  the  house,  he  rose  to  his  feet  and 
peeped  through  the  upper  half  of  the  pane. 

It  seemed  ta  be  the  room  where  prescriptions 
were  compounded.  As  it  was  empty,  he  allowed 
himself  a  hasty  survey.  All  manner  of  bottles 
were  ranged  along  the  walls;  there  was  a  high 
counter  with  scales,  a  desk,  and  a  sink.  At  the 
back  he  could  see  the  bamboo  curtain  which  he 
remembered  having  noticed  from  the  shop.  The 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

whole  place  was  in  the  utmost  disorder:  mortars, 
glass  beakers,  a  typewriter,  cabinets  of  labels, 
dusty  piles  of  old  prescriptions  strung  on  filing 
hooks,  papers  of  pills  and  capsules,  all  strewn  in  an 
indescribable  litter.  Some  infusion  was  heating 
in  a  glass  bowl  propped  on  a  tripod  over  a  blue  gas 
flame.  Aubrey  noticed  particularly  a  heap  of  old 
books  several  feet  high  piled  carelessly  at  one  end 
of  the  counter. 

Looking  more  carefully,  he  saw  that  what  he  had 
taken  for  a  mirror  over  the  prescription  counter 
was  an  aperture  looking  into  the  shop.  Through 
this  he  could  see  Weintraub,  behind  the  cigar  case, 
waiting  upon  some  belated  customer  with  his  shop- 
worn air  of  affability.  The  visitor  departed,  and 
Weintraub  locked  the  door  after  him  and  pulled 
down  the  blinds.  Then  he  returned  toward  the 
prescription  room,  and  Aubrey  ducked  out  of 
view. 

Presently  he  risked  looking  again,  and  was  just 
in  time  to  see  a  curious  sight.  The  druggist  was 
bending  over  the  counter,  pouring  some  liquid  into 
a  glass  vessel.  His  face  was  directly  under  a 
hanging  bulb,  and  Aubrey  was  amazed  at  the 
transformation.  The  apparently  genial  apothe- 
cary of  cigarstand  and  soda  fountain  was  gone. 
He  saw  instead  a  heavy,  cruel,  jowlish  face,  with 
eyelids  hooded  down  over  the  eyes,  and  a  square 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

thrusting  chin  buttressed  on  a  mass  of  jaw  and 
suetty  cheek  that  glistened  with  an  oily  shimmer. 
The  jaw  quivered  a  little  as  though  with  some  in- 
tense suppressed  emotion.  The  man  was  com- 
pletely absorbed  ha  his  task.  The  thick  lower  lip 
lapped  upward  over  the  mouth.  On  the  cheek- 
bone was  a  deep  red  scar.  Aubrey  felt  a  pang  of 
fascinated  amazement  at  the  gross  energy  and 
power  of  that  abominable  relentless  mask. 

"So  this  is  the  harmless  old  thing!"  he  thought. 

Just  then  the  bamboo  curtain  parted,  and  the 
woman  whom  he  had  seen  upstairs  appeared. 
Forgetting  his  own  situation,  Aubrey  still  stared. 
She  wore  a  faded  dressing  gown  and  her  hair  was 
braided  as  though  for  the  night.  She  looked 
frightened,  and  must  have  spoken,  for  Aubrey 
saw  her  lips  mave.  The  man  remained  bent  over 
his  counter  until  the  last  drops  of  liquid  had  run 
out.  His  jaw  tightened,  he  straightened  sud- 
denly and  took  one  step  toward  her,  with  out- 
stretched hand  imperiously  pointed.  Aubrey 
could  see  his  face  plainly:  it  had  a  savagery  more 
than  bestial.  The  woman's  face,  which  had  borne 
a  timid,  pleading  expression,  appealed  in  vain 
against  that  fierce  gesture.  She  turned  and 
vanished.  Aubrey  saw  the  druggist's  pointing 
finger  tremble.  Again  he  ducked  out  of  sight. 
"That  man's  face  would  be  lonely  hi  a  crowd," 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         227 

he  said  to  himself.  "And  I  used  to  think  the 
movies  exaggerated  things.  Say,  he  ought  to 
play  opposite  Theda  Bara." 

He  lay  at  full  length  in  the  paved  alley  and 
thought  that  a  little  acquaintance  with  Weintraub 
would  go  a  long  way.  Then  the  light  in  the  win- 
dow above  him  went  out,  and  he  gathered  himself 
together  for  quick  motion  if  necessary.  Per- 
haps the  man  would  come  out  to  close  the  cellar 
door 

The  thought  was  in  his  mind  when  a  light 
flashed  on  farther  down  the  passage,  between  him 
and  the  kitchen.  It  came  from  a  small  barred 
window  on  the  ground  level.  Evidently  the  drug- 
gist had  gone  down  into  the  cellar.  Aubrey 
crawled  silently  along  toward  the  yard.  Reaching 
the  lit  pane  he  lay  against  the  wall  and  looked  in. 

The  window  was  too  grimed  for  him  to  see 
clearly,  but  what  he  could  make  out  had  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  chemical  laboratory  and  machine 
shop  combined.  A  long  work  bench  was  lit  by 
several  electrics.  On  it  he  saw  glass  vials  of  odd 
shapes,  and  a  medley  of  tools.  Sheets  of  tin, 
lengths  of  lead  pipe,  gas  burners,  a  vise,  boilers 
and  cylinders,  tall  jars  of  coloured  fluids.  He 
could  hear  a  dull  humming  sound,  which  he  sur- 
mised came  from  some  sort  of  revolving  tool  which 
he  could  see  was  run  by  a  belt  from  a  motor. 


228         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

On  trying  to  spy  more  clearly  lie  found  that  what 
he  had  taken  for  dirt  was  a  coat  of  whitewash 
which  had  been  applied  to  the  window  on  the 
inside,  but  the  coating  had  worn  away  in  one  spot 
which  gave  him  a  loophole.  What  surprised  him 
most  was  to  spy  the  covers  of  a  number  of  books 
strewn  about  the  work  table.  One,  he  was  ready 
to  swear,  was  the  Cromwell.  He  knew  that  bright 
blue  cloth  by  this  time. 

For  the  second  time  that  evening  Aubrey  wished 
for  the  presence  of  one  of  his  former  instructors. 
"I  wish  I  had  my  old  chemistry  professor  here," 
he  thought.  "I'd  like  to  know  what  this  bird  is  up 
to.  I'd  hate  to  swallow  one  of  his  prescriptions." 

His  teeth  were  chattering  after  the  long  exposure 
and  he  was  wet  through  from  lying  in  the  little 
gutter  that  apparently  drained  off  from  the  sink 
in  Weintraub's  prescription  laboratory.  He  could 
not  see  what  the  druggist  was  doing  in  the  cellar, 
for  the  man's  broad  back  was  turned  toward  him. 
He  felt  as  though  he  had  had  quite  enough  thrills 
for  one  evening.  Creeping  along  he  found  his  way 
back  to  the  yard,  and  stepped  cautiously  among  the 
empty  boxes  with  which  it  was  strewn.  An  ele- 
vated train  rumbled  overhead,  and  he  watched  the 
brightly  lighted  cars  swing  by.  While  the  train 
roared  above  him,  he  scrambled  up  the  fence  and 
dropped  down  into  the  alley. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"Well,"  he  thought,  "I'd  give  full-page  space, 
preferred  position,  in  the  magazine  Ben  Franklin 
founded  to  the  guy  that'd  tell  me  what's  going  on 
at  this  grand  bolshevik  headquarters.  It  looks 
to  me  as  though  they're  getting  ready  to  blow  the 
Octagon  Hotel  off  the  map." 

He  found  a  little  confectionery  shop  on  Words- 
worth Avenue  that  was  still  open,  and  went  in  for 
a  cup  of  hot  chocolate  to  warm  himself.  "The 
expense  account  on  this  business  is  going  to  be 
rather  heavy,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  think  I'll 
have  to  charge  it  up  to  the  Daintybits  account. 
Say,  old  Grey  Matter  gives  service  that's  different, 
don't  she!  We  not  only  keep  Chapman's  goods  in 
the  public  eye,  but  we  face  all  the  horrors  of  Brook- 
lyn to  preserve  his  family  from  unlawful  occasions. 
No,  I  don't  like  the  company  that  bookseller  runs 
with.  If  'nach  Philadelphia9  is  the  word,  I  think 
I'll  tag  along.  I  guess  it's  off  for  Philadelphia  in 
the  morning!" 


CHAPTER 
THE  BATTLE  OF  LUDLOW  STREET 

KLRELY  was  a  more  genuine  tribute  paid 
to  entrancing  girlhood  than  when  Aubrey 
compelled  himself,  by  sheer  force  of  will 
and  the  ticking  of  his  subconscious  time-sense,  to 
wake  at  six  o'clock  the  next  morning.     For  this 
young  man  took  sleep  seriously  and  with  a  prim- 
itive zest. ,  It  was  to  him  almost  a  religious  func- 
tion.   As  a  minor  poet  has  said,  he  "made  sleep  a 
career." 

But  he  did  not  know  what  train  Roger  might  be 
taking,  and  he  was  determined  not  to  miss  him. 
By  a  quarter  after  six  he  was  seated  in  the  Mil- 
waukee Lunch  (which  is  never  closed — Open  from 
Now  Till  the  Judgment  Day.  Tables  for  Ladies,  as 
its  sign  says)  with  a  cup  of  coffee  and  corned  beef 
hash.  In  the  mood  of  tender  melancholy  common 
to  unaccustomed  early  rising  he  dwelt  fondly  on 
the  thought  of  Titania,  so  near  and  yet  so  far 
away.  He  had  leisure  to  give  free  rein  to  these 
musings,  for  it  was  ten  past  seven  before  Roger 
appeared,  hurrying  toward  the  subway.  Aubrey 

230 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         231 

followed  at  a  discreet  distance,  taking  care  not  to 
be  observed. 

The  bookseller  and  his  pursuer  both  boarded  the 
eight  o'clock  train  at  the  Pennsylvania  Station, 
but  in  very  different  moods.  To  Rqger,  this 
expedition  was  a  frolic,  pure  and  simple.  He  had 
been  tied  down  to  the  bookshop  so  long  that  a 
day's  excursion  seemed  too  good  to  be  true.  He 
bought  two  cigars — an  unusual  luxury — and  let 
the  morning  paper  lie  unheeded  in  his  lap  as  the 
train  drummed  over  the  Hackensack  marshes.  He 
felt  a  good  deal  of  pride  in  having  been  summoned 
to  apppaise  the  Oldham  library.  Mr.  Oldham 
was  a  very  distinguished  collector,  a  wealthy 
Philadelphia  merchant  whose  choice  Johnson, 
Lamb,  Keats,  and  Blake  items  were  the  envy  of 
connoisseurs  all  over  the  world.  Roger  knew 
very  well  that  there  were  many  better-known 
dealers  who  would  have  jumped  at  the  chance  to 
examine  the  collection  and  pocket  the  appraiser's 
fee.  The  word  that  Roger  had  had  by  long  dis- 
tance telephone  was  that  Mr.  Oldham  had  decided 
to  sell  his  collection,  and  before  putting  it  to  auc- 
tion desired  the  advices  of  an  expert  as  to  the  prices 
his  items  should  command  in  the  present  state  of 
the  market.  And  as  Roger  was  not  particularly 
conversant  with  current  events  in  the  world  of 
rare  books  and  manuscripts,  he  spent  most  of  the 


232         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

trip  in  turning  over  some  annotated  catalogues  of 
recent  sales  which  Mr.  Chapman  had  lent  him. 
"This  invitation,"  he  said  to  himself,  "confirms 
what  I  have  always  said,  that  the  artist,  in  any 
line  of  work,  will  eventually  be  recognized  above 
the  mere  tradesman.  Somehow  or  other  Mr.  Old- 
ham  has  heard  that  I  am  not  only  a  seller  of  old 
books  but  a  lover  of  them.  He  prefers  to  have  me 
go  over  his  treasures  with  him,  rather  than  one  of 
those  who  peddle  these  things  like  so  much  tal- 
low." 

Aubrey's  humour  was  far  removed  from  that  of 
the  happy  bookseller.  In  the  first  place,  Roger  was 
sitting  in  the  smoker,  and  as  Aubrey  feared  to 
enter  the  same  car  for  fear  of  being  observed,  he 
had  to  do  without  his  pipe.  He  took  the  fore- 
most seat  in  the  second  coach,  and  peering  occa- 
sionally through  the  glass  doors  he  could  see  the 
bald  poll  of  his  quarry  wreathed  with  exhalements 
of  cheap  havana.  Secondly,  he  had  hoped  to  see 
Weintraub  on  the  same  train,  but  though  he  had 
tarried  at  the  train-gate  until  the  last  moment,  the 
German  had  not  appeared.  He  had  concluded 
from  Weintraub's  words  the  night  before  that  drug- 
gist and  bookseller  were  bound  on  a  joint  errand. 
Apparently  he  was  mistaken.  He  bit  his  nails, 
glowered  at  the  flying  landscape,  and  revolved 
many  grievous  fancies  in  his  prickling  bosom. 


TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        233 

> 

Among  other  discontents  was  the  knowledge  that 
he  did  not  have  enough  money  with  him  to  pay 
his  fare  back  to  New  York,  and  he  would  either 
have  to  borrow  from  someone  in  Philadelphia  or 
wire  to  his  office  for  funds.  He  had  not  antici- 
pated, when  setting  out  upon  this  series  of  adven- 
tures, that  it  would  prove  so  costly. 

The  train  drew  into  Broad  Street  station  at 
ten  o'clock,  and  Aubrey  followed  the  bookseller 
through  the  bustling  terminus  and  round  the  City 
Hall  plaza.  Mifflin  seemed  to  know  his  way,  but 
Philadelphia  was  comparatively  strange  to  the 
Grey-Matter  solicitor.  He  was  quite  surprised 
at  the  impressive  vista  of  South  Broad  Street,  and 
chagrined  to  find  people  jostling  him  on  the 
crowded  pavement  as  though  they  did  not  know 
he  had  just  come  from  New  York. 

Roger  turned  in  at  a  huge  office  building  on 
Broad  Street  and  took  an  express  elevator.  Au- 
brey did  not  dare  follow  him  into  the  car,  so  he 
waited  in  the  lobby.  He  learned  from  the  starter 
that  there  was  a  second  tier  of  elevators  on  the 
other  side  of  the  building,  so  he  tipped  a  boy  a 
quarter  to  watch  them  for  him,  describing  Mifflin 
so  accurately  that  he  could  not  be  missed.  By 
this  time  Aubrey  was  in  a  thoroughly  ill  temper, 
and  enjoyed  quarrelling  with  the  starter  on  the 
subject  of  indicators  for  showing  the  position  of 


234         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

the  elevators.  Observing  that  in  this  building  the 
indicators  were  glass  tubes  in  which  the  movement 
of  the  car  was  traced  by  a  rising  or  falling  column 
of  coloured  fluid,  Aubrey  remarked  testily  that 
that  old-fashioned  stunt  had  long  been  abandoned 
in  New  York.  The  starter  retorted  that  New  York 
was  only  two  hours  away  if  he  liked  it  better. 
This  argument  helped  to  fleet  the  time  rapidly. 

Meanwhile  Roger,  with  the  pleasurable  sensa- 
tion of  one  who  expects  to  be  received  as  a  dis- 
tinguished visitor  from  out  of  town,  had  entered 
the  luxurious  suite  of  Mr.  Oldham.  A  young  lady, 
rather  too  transparently  shirtwaisted  but  fair  to 
look  upon,  asked  what  she  could  do  for  him. 

"I  want  to  see  Mr.  Oldham." 

"What  name  shall  I  say?" 

"Mr.  Mifflin— Mr.  Mifflin  of  Brooklyn." 

"Have  you  an  appointment?" 

"Yes." 

Roger  sat  down  with  agreeable  anticipation. 
He  noticed  the  shining  mahogany  of  the  office 
furniture,  the  sparkling  green  jar  of  drinking  water, 
the  hushed  and  efficient  activity  of  the  young 
ladies.  "Philadelphia  girls  are  amazingly  comely," 
he  said  to  himself,  "but  none  of  these  can  hold  a 
candle  to  Miss  Titania." 

The  young  lady  returned  from  the  private  office 
looking  a  little  perplexed. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         235 

"Did  you  have  an  appointment  with  Mr.  Old- 
ham?"  she  said.  "He  doesn't  seem  to  recall  it." 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  Roger.  "It  was  ar- 
ranged by  telephone  on  Saturday  afternoon.  Mr. 
Oldham's  secretary  called  me  up." 

"Have  I  got  your  name  right?"  she  asked, 
showing  a  slip  on  which  she  had  written  Mr. 
Miflin. 

"Two  fs,"  said  Roger.  "Mr.  Roger  Mifflin, 
the  bookseller." 

The  girl  retired,  and  came  back  a  moment  later. 

"Mr.  Oldham's  very  busy,"  she  said,  "but  he 
can  see  you  for  a  moment." 

Roger  was  ushered  into  the  private  office,  a 
large,  airy  room  lined  with  bookshelves.  Mr. 
Oldham,  a  tall,  thin  man  with  short  gray  hair  and 
lively  black  eyes,  rose  courteously  from  his  desk. 

"How  do  you  do,  sir,"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry,  I 
had  forgotten  our  appointment." 

"He  must  be  very  absent  minded,"  thought 
Roger.  "Arranges  to  sell  a  collection  worth  half 
a  million,  and  forgets  all  about  it." 

"I  came  over  in  response  to  your  message,"  he 
said.  "About  selling  your  collection." 

Mr.  Oldham  looked  at  him,  rather  intently, 
Roger  thought. 

"Do  you  want  to  buy  it?"  he  said. 

"To  buy  it?"  said  Roger,  a  little  peevishly. 


236         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"Why,  no.  I  came  over  to  appraise  it  for  you. 
Your  secretary  telephoned  me  on  Saturday." 

"My"  dear  jsu%"  replied  the  other,  "there  must 
be  some  mistake.  I  have  no  intention  of  selling 
my  collection.  I  never  sent  you  a  message." 

Roger  was  aghast. 

"Why,"  he  exclaimed,  "your  secretary  called 
me  up  on  Saturday  and  said  you  particularly 
wanted  me  to  come  over  this  morning,  to  examine 
your  books  with  you.  I've  made  the  trip  from 
Brooklyn  for  that  purpose." 

Mr.  Oldham  touched  a  buzzer,  and  a  middle- 
aged  woman  came  into  the  office.  "Miss  Patter- 
son," he  said,  "did  you  telephone  to  Mr.  Mifflin  of 
Brooklyn  on  Saturday,  asking  him " 

"It  was  a  man  that  telephoned,"  said  Roger. 

"I'm  exceedingly  sorry,  Mr.  Mifflin,"  said  Mr. 
Oldham.  "More  sorry  than  I  can  tell  you — I'm 
afraid  someone  has  played  a  trick  on  you.  As  I 
told  you,  and  Miss  Patterson  will  bear  me  out, 
I  have  no  idea  of  selling  my  books,  and  have  never 
authorized  any  one  even  to  suggest  such  a  thing." 

Roger  was  filled  with  confusion  and  anger.  A 
hoax  on  the  part  of  some  of  the  Corn  Cob  Club,  he 
thought  to  himself.  He  flushed  painfully  to  recall 
the  simplicity  of  his  glee. 

"Please  don't  be  embarrassed,"  said  Mr.  Old- 
ham,  seeing  the  little  man's  vexation.  "Don't 


TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        237 

let's  consider  the  trip  wasted.  Won't  you  come 
out  and  dine  with  me  in  the  country  this  evening, 
and  see  my  things?" 

But  Roger  was  too  proud  to  accept  this  balm, 
courteous  as  it  was. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  afraid  I  can't 
do  it.  I'm  rather  busy  at  home,  and  only  came 
over  because  I  believed  this  to  be  urgent." 

"Some  other  time,  perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Oldham. 
"Look  here,  you're  a  bookseller?  I  don't  believe 
I  know  your  shop.  Give  me  your  card.  The  next 
time  I'm  in  New  York  I'd  like  to  stop  in." 

Roger  got  away  as  quickly  as  the  otherVpolite- 
ness  would  let  him.  He  chafed  savagely  at  the 
awkwardness  of  his  position.  Not  until  he 
reached  the  street  again  did  he  breathe  freely. 

"Some  of  Jerry  Gladfist's  tomfoolery,  I'll  bet  a 
hat,"  he  muttered.  "By  the  bones  of  Fanny 
Kelly,  I'll  make  him  smart  for  it." 

Even  Aubrey,  picking  up  the  trail  again,  could 
see  that  Roger  was  angry. 

"Something's  got  his  goat,"  he  reflected.  "I 
wonder  what  he's  peeved  about?" 

They  crossed  Broad  Street  and  Roger  started 
off  down  Chestnut.  Aubrey  saw  the  bookseller 
halt  in  a  doorway  to  light  his  pipe,  and  stopped 
some  yards  behind  him  to  look  up  at  the  statue  of 
William  Penn  on  the  City  Hall.  It  was  a  blustery 


238         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

day,  and  at  that  moment  a  gust  of  wind  whipped 
off  his  hat  and  sent  it  spinning  down  Broad  Street. 
He  ran  half  a  block  before  he  recaptured  it.  When 
he  got  back  to  Chestnut,  Roger  had  disappeared. 
He  hurried  down  Chestnut  Street,  bumping  pe- 
destrians in  his  eagerness,  but  at  Thirteenth  he 
halted  in  dismay.  Nowhere  could  he  see  a  sign  of 
the  little  bookseller.  He  appealed  to  the  police- 
man at  that  corner,  but  learned  nothing.  Vainly 
he  scoured  the  block  and  up  and  down  Juniper 
Street.  It  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  streets 
were  thronged. 

He  cursed  the  book  business  in  both  hemispheres, 
cursed  himself,  and  cursed  Philadelphia.  Then  he 
went  into  a  tobacconist's  and  bought  a  packet  of 
cigarettes. 

For  an  hour  he  patrolled  up  and  down  Chestnut 
Street,  on  both  sides  of  the  way,  thinking  he  might 
possibly  encounter  Roger.  At  the  end  of  this  time 
he  found  himself  hi  front  of  a  newspaper  office,  and 
remembered  that  an  old  friend  of  his  was  an  edi- 
torial writer  on  the  staff.  He  entered,  and  went 
up  in  the  elevator. 

He  found  his  friend  in  a  small  grimy  den,  sur- 
rounded by  a  sea  of  papers,  smoking  a  pipe  with 
his  feet  on  the  table.  They  greeted  each  other 
joyfully. 

"Well,  look  who's  here!"  cried  the  facetious 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        239 

journalist.  "Tamburlaine  the  Great,  and  none 
other !  What  brings  you  to  this  distant  outpost?  " 

Aubrey  grinned  at  the  use  of  his  old  college 
nickname. 

"IVe  come  to  lunch  with  you,  and  borrow 
enough  money  to  get  home  with." 

"On  Monday?"  cried  the  other.  "Tuesday 
being  the  day  of  stipend  in  these  quarters?  Nay, 
say  not  so ! " 

They  lunched  together  at  a  quiet  Italian  restau- 
rant, and  Aubrey  narrated  tersely  the  adventures 
of  the  past  few  days.  The  newspaper  man  smoked 
pensively  when  the  story  was  concluded. 

"I'd  like  to  see  the  girl,"  he  said.  "Tambo, 
your  tale  hath  the  ring  of  sincerity.  It  is  full  of 
sound  and  fury,  but  it  signifieth  something.  You 
say  your  man  is  a  second-hand  bookseller?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  know  where  you'll  find  him." 

"Nonsense!" 

"It's  worth  trying.  Go  up  to  Leary's,  9  South 
Ninth.  It's  right  on  this  street.  I'll  show  you.  : 

"Let's  go,"  said  Aubrey  promptly. 

"Not  only  that,"  said  the  other,  "but  I'll  lend 
you  my  last  V.  Not  for  your  sake,  but  on  behalf  of 
the  girl.  Just  mention  my  name  to  her,  will  you? 

"  Right  up  the  block,"  he  pointed  as  they  reached 
Chestnut  Street.  "No,  I  won't  come  with  you, 


240         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

Wilson's  speaking  to  Congress  to-day,  and  there's 
big  stuff  coming  over  the  wire.  So  long,  old  man. 
Invite  me  to  the  wedding!" 

Aubrey  had  no  idea  what  Leary's  was,  and  rather 
expected  it  to  be  a  tavern  of  some  sort.  When  he 
reached  the  place,  however,  he  saw  why  his  friend 
had  suggested  it  as  a  likely  lurking  ground  for 
Roger.  It  would  be  as  impossible  for  any  bib- 
liophile to  pass  this  famous  second-hand  bookstore 
as  for  a  woman  to  go  by  a  wedding  party  without 
trying  to  see  the  bride.  Although  it  was  a  bleak 
day,  and  a  snell  wind  blew  down  the  street,  the 
pavement  counters  were  lined  with  people  turning 
over  disordered  piles  of  volumes.  Within,  he  could 
see  a  vista  of  white  shelves,  and  the  many-coloured 
tapestry  of  bindings  stretching  far  away  to  the  rear 
of  the  building. 

He  entered  eagerly,  and  looked  about.  The 
shop  was  comfortably  busy,  with  a  number  of 
people  browsing.  They  seemed  normal  enough 
from  behind,  but  in  their  eyes  he  detected  the  wild, 
peering  glitter  of  the  bibliomaniac.  Here  and 
there  stood  members  of  the  staff.  Upon  their 
features  Aubrey  discerned  the  placid  and  philo- 
sophic tranquillity  which  he  associated  with 
second-hand  booksellers — all  save  Mifflin. 

He  paced  through  the  narrow  aisles,  scanning 
the  blissful  throng  of  seekers.  He  went  down  to 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        241 

the  educational  department  in  the  basement,  up 
to  the  medical  books  in  the  gallery,  even  back  to 
the  sections  of  Drama  and  Pennsylvania  History 
in  the  raised  quarterdeck  at  the  rear.  There  was 
no  trace  of  Roger. 

At  a  desk  under  the  stairway  he  saw  a  lean, 
studious,  and  kindly-looking  bibliosoph,  who  was 
poring  over  an  immense  catalogue.  An  idea 
struck  him. 

"Have  you  a  copy  of  Carlyle's  Letters  and 
Speeches  of  Oliver  Cromwell  ?"  he  asked. 

The  other  looked  up. 

"Fm  afraid  we  haven't,",  he  said.  "Another 
gentleman  was  in  here  asking  for  it  just  a  few 
minutes  ago." 

"Good  God!"  cried  Aubrey.    "Did  he  get  it?" 

This  emphasis  brought  no  surprise  to-  the  book- 
seller, who  was  accustomed  to  the  oddities  of 
edition  hunters. 

"No,"  he  said.  <  "We  didn't  have  a  copy.  We 
haven't  seen  one  for  a  long  time." 

"Was  he  a  little  bald  man  with  a  red  beard  and 
bright  blue  eyes?"  asked  Aubrey  hoarsely. 

"Yes — Mr.  Mifflin  of  Brooklyn.  Do  you  know 
him?" 

"I  should  say  I  do!"  cried  Aubrey.  "Where 
has  he  gone?  I've  been  hunting  him  all  over  town, 
the  scoundrel!" 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

The  bookseller,  douce  man,  had  seen  too  many 
eccentric  customers  to  be  shocked  by  the  vehe- 
mence of  his  questioner. 

"He  was  here  a  moment  ago,"  he  said  gently, 
and  gazed  with  a  mild  interest  upon  the  excited 
young  advertising  man.  "I  daresay  you'll  find 
him  just  outside,  in  Ludlow  Street." 

"Where's  that?" 

The  tall  man — and  I  don't  see  why  I  should 
scruple  to  name  him,  for  it  was  Philip  Warner — 
explained  that  Ludlow  Street  was  the  narrow  alley 
that  runs  along  one  side  of  Leary's  and  elbows  at 
right  angles  behind  the  shop.  Down  the  flank  of 
the  store,  along  this  narrow  little  street,  run  shelves 
of  books  under  a  penthouse.  It  is  here  that 
Leary's  displays  its  stock  of  ragamuffin  ten-centers 
— queer  dingy  volumes  that  call  to  the  hearts  of 
gentle  questers.  Along  these  historic  shelves 
many  troubled  spirits  have  come  as  near  happi- 
ness as  they  are  like  to  get  .  .  .  for  after  all, 
happiness  (as  the  mathematicians  might  say)  lies 
on  a  curve,  and  we  approach  it  only  by  asymptote. 
.  .  .  The  frequenters  of  this  alley  call  them- 
selves whimsically  The  Ludlow  Street  Business 
Men's  Association,  and  Charles  Lamb  or  Eugene 
Field  would  have  been  proud  to  preside  at  their 
annual  dinners,  at  which  the  members  recount 
their  happiest  book-finds  of  the  year. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        243 

Aubrey  rushed  out  of  the  shop  and  looked  down 
the  alley.  Half  a  dozen  Ludlow  Street  Business 
Men  were  groping  among  the  shelves.  Then, 
down  at  the  far  end,  his  small  face  poked  into  an 
open  volume,  he  saw  Roger.  He  approached  with 
a  rapid  stride. 

"Well,"  he  said  angrily,  "here  you  are!" 

Roger  looked  up  from  his  bookgood-humouredly. 
Apparently,  in  the  zeal  of  his  favourite  pastime, 
he  had  forgotten  where  he  was. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "What  are  you  doing  in 
Brooklyn?  Look  here,  here's  a  copy  of  Tooke's 
Pantheon " 

"What's  the  idea?"  cried  Aubrey  harshly. 
"Are  you  trying  to  kid  me?  What  are  you  and 
Weintraub  framing  up  here  in  Philadelphia?" 

Roger's  mind  came  back  to  Ludlow  Street.  He 
looked  with  some  surprise  at  the  flushed  face  of  the 
young  man,  and  put  the  book  back  in  its  place  on 
the  shelf,  making  a  mental  note  of  its  location. 
His  disappointment  of  the  morning  came  back  to 
him  with  some  irritation. 

"  What  are  you  talking  about?  "  he  said.  "  What 
the  deuce  business  is  it  of  yours?" 

"I'll  make  it  my  business,"  said  Aubrey,  and 
shook  his  fist  in  the  bookseller's  face.  "I've  been 
trailing  you,  you  scoundrel,  and  I  want  to  know 
what  kind  of  a  game  you're  playing." 


244         TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

A  spot  of  red  spread  on  Roger's  cheekbones. 
In  spite  of  his  apparent  demureness  he  had  a 
pugnacious  spirit  and  a  quick  fist. 

"By  the  bones  of  Charles  Lamb!"  he  said. 
"Young  man,  your  manners  need  mending.  If 
you're  looking  for  display  advertising,  I'll  give 
you  one  on  each  eye." 

Aubrey  had  expected  to  find  a  cringing  culprit, 
and  this  back  talk  infuriated  him  beyond  control. 

"You  damned  little  bolshevik,"  he  said,  "if 
you  were  my  size  I'd  give  you  a  hiding.  You  tell 
me  what  you  and  your  pro-German  pals  are  up  to 
or  I'll  put  the  police  on  you!" 

Roger  stiffened.  His  beard  bristled,  and  his  blue 
eyes  glittered. 

"You  impudent  dog,"  he  said  quietly,  "you 
come  round  the  corner  where  these  people  can't 
see  us  and  I'll  give  you  some  private  tutoring." 

He  led  the  way  round  the  corner  of  the  alley. 
In  this  narrow  channel,  between  blank  walls,  they 
confronted  each  other. 

"In  the  name  of  Gutenberg,"  said  Roger,  calling 
upon  his  patron  saint,  "explain  yourself  or  I'll  hit 
you." 

"Who's  he?"  sneered  Aubrey.  "Another  one 
of  your  Huns?" 

That  instant  he  received  a  smart  blow  on  the 
chin,  which  would  have  been  much  harder  but 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        245 

that  Roger  misgauged  his  footing  on  the  uneven 
cobbles,  and  hardly  reached  the  face  of  his  op- 
ponent, who  topped  him  by  many  inches. 

Aubrey  forgot  his  resolution  not  to  hit  a  smaller 
man,  and  also  calling  upon  his  patron  saints — the 
Associated  Advertising  Clubs  of  the  World — he 
delivered  a  smashing  slog  which  hit  the  bookseller 
in  the  chest  and  jolted  him  half  across  the  alley. 

Both  men  were  furiously  angry — Aubrey  with 
the  accumulated  bitterness  of  several  days'  anxiety 
and  suspicion,  and  Roger  with  the  quick-flaming 
indignation  of  a  hot-tempered  man  unwarrantably 
outraged.  Aubrey  had  the  better  of  the  encounter 
in  height,  weight,  and  more  than  twenty  years 
juniority,  but  fortune  played  for  the  bookseller. 
Aubrey's  terrific  punch  sent  the  latter  staggering 
across  the  alley  onto  the  opposite  curb.  Aubrey 
followed  this  up  with  a  rush,  intending  to  crush 
the  other  with  one  fearful  smite.  But  Roger, 
keeping  cool,  now  had  the  advantage  of  position. 
Standing  on  the  curb,  he  had  a  little  the  better  in 
height.  As  Aubrey  leaped  at  him,  his  face  grim 
with  hatred,  Roger  met  him  with  a  savage  buffet 
on  the  jaw.  Aubrey's  foot  struck  against  the  curb, 
and  he  fell  backward  onto  the  stones.  His  head 
crashed  violently  on  the  cobbles,  and  the  old  cut 
on  his  scalp  broke  out  afresh.  Dazed  and  shaken, 
there  was,  for  the  moment,  no  more  fight  in  him. 


246         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"You  insolent  pup,"  panted  Roger,  "do  you 
want  any  more?"  Then  he  saw  that  Aubrey  was 
really  hurt.  With  horror  he  observed  a  trickle  of 
blood  run  down  the  side  of  the  young  man's  face. 

"Good  Lord,"  he  said.  "Maybe  I've  killed 
him!" 

In  a  panic  he  ran  round  the  corner  to  get  Leary's 
outside  man,  who  stands  in  a  little  sentry  box  at  the 
front  angle  of  the  store  and  sells  the  outdoor  books. 

"Quick,"  he  said.  "There's  a  fellow  back  here 
badly  hurt." 

They  ran  back  around  the  corner,  and  found 
Aubrey  walking  rather  shakily  toward  them.  Im- 
mense relief  swam  through  Roger's  brain. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "I'm  awfully  sorry — are 
you  hurt?" 

Aubrey  glared  whitely  at  him,  but  was  too 
stunned  to  speak.  He  grunted,  and  the  others 
took  him  one  on  each  side  and  supported  him. 
Leary's  man  ran  inside  the  store  and  opened  the 
little  door  of  the  freight  elevator  at  the  back  of  the 
shop.  In  this  way,  avoiding  notice  save  by  a  few 
book-prowlers,  Aubrey  was  carted  into  the  shop 
as  though  he  had  been  a  parcel  of  second-hand 
books. 

Mr.  Warner  greeted  them  at  the  back  of  the 
shop,  a  little  surprised,  but  gentle  as  ever. 

"What's  wrong?"  he  said. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        247 

"Oh,  we've  been  fighting  over  a  copy  of  Tooke's 
Pantheon"  said  Roger. 

They  led  Aubrey  into  the  little  private  office  at 
the  rear.  Here  they  made  him  sit  down  in  a  chair 
and  bathed  his  bleeding  head  with  cold  water. 
Philip  Warner,  always  resourceful,  produced  some 
surgical  plaster.  Roger  wanted  to  telephone  for  a 
doctor. 

"Not  on  your  life,"  said  Aubrey,  pulling  himself 
together.  "See  here,  Mr.  Mifflin,  don't  flatter 
yourself  you  gave  me  this  cut  on  the  skull.  I  got 
that  the  other  evening  on  Brooklyn  Bridge,  going 
home  from  your  damned  bookshop.  Now  if  you 
and  I  can  be  alone  for  a  few  minutes,  we've  got  to 
have  a  talk." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    "CROMWELL"    MAKES    ITS    LAST 
APPEARANCE 

YOU  utter  idiot,"  said  Roger,  half  an  hour 
later.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me  all  this 
sooner?  Good  Lord,  man,  there's  some 
devil's  work  going  on!" 

"How  the  deuce  was  I  to  know  you  knew  nothing 
about  it?"  said  Aubrey  impatiently.  "You'll 
grant  everything  pointed  against  you?  When  I 
saw  that  guy  go  into  the  shop  with  his  own  key, 
what  could  I  think  but  that  you  were  in  league  with 
him?  Gracious,  man,  are  you  so  befuddled  in  your 
old  books  that  you  don't  see  what's  going  on  round 
you?" 

"What  time  did  you  say  that_was?"  said  Roger 
shortly. 

"One  o'clock  Sunday  morning." 

Roger  thought  a  minute.  "Yes,  1  was  in  the 
cellar  with  Bock,"  he  said.  "Bock  barked,  and  I 
thought  it  was  rats.  That  fellow  must  have  taken 
an  impression  of  the  lock  and  made  himself  a  key. 
He's  been  in  the  shop  hundreds  of  times,  and  could 

248 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        249 

easily    do    it.     That    explains    the    disappearing 
Cromwell.     But  why  ?    What's  the  idea?" 

"For  the  love  of  heaven,"  said  Aubrey.  "Let's 
get  back  to  Brooklyn  as  soon  as  we  can.  God  only 
knows  what  may  have  happened.  Fool  that  I  was, 
to  go  away  and  leave  those  women  all  alone. 
Triple-distilled  lunacy!" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Roger,  "I  was  the  fool 
to  be  lured  off  by  a  fake  telephone  call.  Judging 
by  what  you  say,  Weintraub  must  have  worked 
that  also." 

Aubrey  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Just  after  three,' ' 
he  said. 

"We  can't  get  a  train  till  four,"  said  Roger. 
"That  means  we  can't  get  back  to  Gissing  Street 
until  nearly  seven." 

"Call  them  up,"  said  Aubrey. 

They  were  still  in  the  private  office  at  the  rear  of 
Leary's.  Roger  was  well-known  in  the  shop,  and 
had  no  hesitation  in  using  the  telephone.  He 
lifted  the  receiver. 

"Long  Distance,  please,"  he  said.  "Hullo? 
I  want  to  get  Brooklyn,  Wordsworth  1617-W." 

They  spent  a  sour  twenty-five  minutes  waiting 
for  the  connection.  Roger  went  out  to  talk  with 
Warner,  while  Aubrey  fumed  in  the  back  office. 
He  could  not  sit  still,  and  paced  the  little  room  in 
a  fidget  of  impatience,  tearing  his  watch  out  of  his 


250         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

pocket  every  few  minutes.  He  felt  dull  and  sick 
with  vague  fear.  To  his  mind  recurred  the  spiteful 
buzz  of  that  voice  over  the  wire — "Gissing  Street 
is  not  healthy  Jar  you."  He  remembered  the  scuffle 
on  the  Bridge,  the  whispering  in  the  alley,  and  the 
sinister  face  of  the  druggist  at  his  prescription 
counter.  The  whole  series  of  events  seemed  a 
grossly  fantastic  nightmare,  yet  it  frightened  him, 
"If  only  I  were  in  Brooklyn,"  he  groaned,  "it 
wouldn't  be  so  bad.  But  to  be  over  here,  a  hun- 
dred miles  away,  in  another  cursed  bookshop,  while 
that  girl  may  be  in  trouble — Gosh!"  he  muttered. 
"If  I  get  through  this  business  all  right  I'll  lay 
off  bookshops  for  the  rest  of  my  life!" 

The  telephone  rang,  and  Aubrey  frantically 
beckoned  to  Roger,  who  was  outside,  talking. 

"Answer  it,  you  chump!"  said  Roger.  "We'll 
lose  the  connection!" 

"Nix,"  said  Aubrey.  "If  Titania  hfears  my 
voice  she'll  ring  off.  She's  sore  at  me." 

Roger  ran  to  the  instrument.  "Hullo,  hullo?" 
he  said,  irritably.  "Hullo,  is  that  Wordsworth 
?  Yes,  I'm  calling  Brooklyn— Hullo ! " 

Aubrey,  leaning  over  Roger's  shoulder,  could 
hear  a  clucking  in  the  receiver,  and  then,  incredibly 
clear,  a  thin,  silver,  distant  voice.  How  well  he 
knew  it!  It  seemed  to  vibrate  in  the  air  all  about 
him.  He  could  hear  every  syllable  distinctly.  A 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        251 

hot  perspiration  burst  out  on  his  forehead  and  in 
the  palms  of  his  hands. 

"Hullo,"  said  Roger.  "Is  that  Mifflin's  Book- 
shop?" 

"Yes,"  said  Titania.  "Is  that  you,  Mr.  Mifflin? 
Where  are  you?" 

"In  Philadelphia,"  said  Roger.  "Tell  me,  is 
everything  all  right?" 

"Everything's  dandy,"  said  Titania.  "I'm 
selling  loads  of  books.  Mrs.  Mifflin's  gone  out  to 
do  some  shopping." 

Aubrey  shook  to  hear  the  tiny,  airy  voice,  like 
a  trill  of  birdsong,  like  a  tinkling  from  some  distant 
star.  He  could  imagine  her  standing  at  the  phone 
in  the  back  of  the  shadowy  bookshop,  and  seemed 
to  see  her  as  though  through  an  inverted  telescope, 
very  minute  and  very  perfect.  How  brave  and 
exquisite  she  was! 

"When  are  you  coming  home?"  she  was 
saying. 

"About  seven  o'clock,"  said  Roger.  "Listen, 
is  everything  absolutely  O.  K.?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Titania.  "I've  been  having 
lots  of  fun.  I  went  down  just  now  and  put  some 
coal  on  the  furnace.  Oh,  yes.  Mr.  Weintraub 
came  in  a  little  while  ago  and  left  a  suitcase  of 
books.  He  said  you  wouldn't  mind.  A  friend  of 
his  is  going  to  call  for  them  this  afternoon." 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"Hold  the  wire  a  moment,"  said  Roger,  and 
clapped  his  hand  over  the  mouthpiece.  "  She  says 
Weintraub  left  a  suitcase  of  books  there  to  be 
called  for.  What  do  you  make  of  that?  " 

"For  the  love  of  God,  tell  her  not  to  touch  those 
books." 

"Hullo?"  said  Roger.  Aubrey,  leaning  over 
him,  noticed  that  the  little  bookseller's  naked 
pate  was  ringed  with  crystal  beads. 

"Hullo?"  replied  TitamVs  elfin  voice  promptly. 

"Did  you  open  the  suitcase?" 

"No.  It's  locked.  Mr.  Weintraub  said  there 
were  a  lot  of  old  books  in  it  for  a  friend  of  his. 
It's  very  heavy." 

"Look  here,"  said  Roger,  and  his  voice  rang 
sharply.  "This  is  important.  I  don't  want  you 
to  touch  that  suitcase.  Leave  it  wherever  it  is, 
and  don't  touch  it.  Promise  me." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Mifflin.  Had  I  better  put  it  in  a  safe 
place?" 

"Don't  touch  it!" 

"Bock's  sniffing  at  it  now." 

"Don't  touch  it,  and  don't  let  Bock  touch  it. 
It — it's  got  valuable  papers  in  it." 

"I'll  be  careful  of  it,"  said  Titania. 

"Promise  me  not  to  touch  it.  And  another 
thing — if  any  one  calls  for  it,  don't  let  them  take 
it  until  I  get  home." 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        253 

Aubrey  held  out  his  watch  in  front  of  Roger. 
The  latter  nodded. 

"Do  you  understand?"  he  said.  /"Do  you  hear 
me  all  right?" 

"Yes,  splendidly.  I  think  it's  wonderful!  You 
know  I  never  talked  on  long  distance  before " 

"Don't  touch  the  bag,"  repeated  Roger  dog- 
gedly, "and  don't  let  any  one  take  it  until  we — 
until  I  get  back." 

"I  promise,"  said  Titania  blithely. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Roger,  and  set  down  the 
receiver.  His  face  looked  curiously  pinched,  and 
there  was  perspiration  in  the  hollows  under  his 
eyes.  Aubrey  held  out  his  watch  impatiently. 

"We've  just  time  to  make  it,"  cried  Roger,  and 
they  rushed  from  the  shop. 

It  was  not  a  sprightly  journey.  The  train  made 
its  accustomed  detour  through  West  Philadelphia 
and  North  Philadelphia  before  getting  down  to 
business,  and  the  two  voyagers  felt  a  personal 
hatred  of  the  brakemen  who  permitted  passengers 
from  these  suburbs  to  straggle  leisurely  aboard 
instead  of  flogging  them  in  with  knotted  whips. 
When  the  express  stopped  at  Trenton,  Aubrey 
could  easily  have  turned  a  howitzer  upon  that  in- 
nocent city  and  blasted  it  into  rubble.  An  unex- 
pected stop  at  Princeton  Junction  was  the  last 


254         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

straw.  Aubrey  addressed  the  conductor  in  terms 
that  were  highly  treasonable,  considering  that  this 
official  was  a  government  servant. 

The  winter  twilight  drew  in,  gray  and  dreary, 
with  a  threat  of  snow.  For  some  time  they  sat  in 
silence,  Roger  buried  in  a  Philadelphia  afternoon 
paper  containing  the  text  of  the  President's  speech 
announcing  his  trip  to  Europe,  and  Aubrey  gloom- 
ily recapitulating  the  schedule  of  his  past  week. 
His  head  throbbed,  his  hands  were  wet  with  ner- 
vousness so  that  crumbs  of  tobacco  adhered  to 
them  annoyingly. 

"It's  a  funny  thing,"  he  said  at  last.  "You 
know  I  never  heard  of  your  shop  until  a  week  ago 
to-day,  and  now  it  seems  like  the  most  important 
place  on  earth.  It  was  only  last  Tuesday  that  we 
had  supper  together,  and  since  then  I've  had  my 
scalp  laid  open  twice,  had  a  desperado  lie  in  wait 
for  me  in  my  own  bedroom,  spent  two  night  vigils 
on  Gissing  Street,  and  endangered  the  biggest 
advertising  account  our  agency  handles.  I  don't 
wonder  you  call  the  place  haunted!" 

"I  suppose  it  would  all  make  good  advertising 
copy?"  said  Roger  peevishly. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Aubrey.  "It's  a 
bit  too  rough,  I'm  afraid.  How  do  you  dope  it 
out?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think.     Weintraub  has 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        255 

run  that  drug  store  for  twenty  years  or  more. 
Years  ago,  before  I  ever  got  into  the  book  business, 
I  used  to  know  his  shop.  He  was  always  rather 
interested  in  books,  especially  scientific  books, 
and  we  got  quite  friendly  when  I  opened  up  on 
Gissing  Street.  I  never  fell  for  his  face  very  hard, 
but  he  always  seemed  quiet  and  well-disposed.  It 
sounds  to  me  like  some  kind  of  trade  in  illicit 
drugs,  or  German  incendiary  bombs.  You  know 
what  a  lot  of  fires  there  were  during  the  war — 
those  big  grain  elevators  in  Brooklyn,  and  so  on." 

"I  thought  at  first  it  was  a  kidnapping  stunt," 
said  Aubrey.  "I  thought  you  had  got  Miss 
Chapman  planted  in  your  shop  so  that  these  other 
guys  could  smuggle  her  away." 

"You  seem  to  have  done  me  the  honour  of 
thinking  me  a  very  complete  rascal,"  said  Roger. 

Aubrey's  lips  trembled  with  irritable  retort,  but 
he  checked  himself  heroically. 

"What  was  your  particular  interest  in  the  Crom- 
well book?"  he  asked  after  a  pause. 

"Oh,  I  read  somewhere — two  or  three  years  ago 
— that  it  was  one  of  Woodrow  Wilson's  favourite 
books.  That  interested  me,  and  I  looked  it  up." 

"By  the  way,"  cried  Aubrey  excitedly,  "I  for- 
got to  show  you  those  numbers  that  were  written 
in  the  cover."  He  pulled  out  his  memorandum 
book,  and  showed  the  transcript  he  had  made. 


256         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"Well,  one  of  these  is  perfectly  understandable," 
said  Roger.  "Here,  where  it  says  329  jff.  cf.  W. 
W.  That  simply  means  'pages  329  and  following, 
compare  Woodrow  Wilson.'  I  remember  jotting 
that  down  not  long  ago,  because  that  passage  in 
the  book  reminded  me  of  some  of  Wilson's  ideas. 
I  generally  note  down  in  the  back  of  a  book  the 
numbers  of  any  pages  that  interest  me  specially. 
These  other  page  numbers  convey  nothing  unless  I 
had  the  book  before  me." 

"The  first  bunch  of  numbers  was  in  your  hand- 
writing, then;  but  underneath  were  these  others,  in 
Weintraub's — or  at  any  rate  in  his  ink.  When  I 
saw  that  he  was  jotting  down  what  I  took  to  be 
code  stuff  in  the  backs  of  your  books  I  naturally 
assumed  you  and  he  were  working  together " 

"And  you  found  the  cover  in  his  drug  store?" 

"Yes." 

Roger  scowled.  "I  don't  make  it  out,"  he  said. 
"Well,  there's  nothing  we  can  do  till  we  get  there. 
Do  you  want  to  look  at  the  paper?  There's  the 
text  of  Wilson's  speech  to  Congress  this  morning." 

Aubrey  shook  his  head  dismally,  and  leaned  his 
hot  forehead  against  the  pane.  Neither  of  them 
spoke  again  until  they  reached  Manhattan  Trans- 
fer, where  they  changed  for  the  Hudson  Terminal. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  when  they  hurried  out  of  the 
subway  terminus  at  Atlantic  Avenue.  It  was  a 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        257 

raw,  damp  evening,  but  the  streets  had  already 
begun  to  bustle  with  their  nightly  exuberance  of 
light  and  colour.  The  yellow  glitter  of  a  pawn- 
shop window  reminded  Aubrey  of  the  small  re- 
volver in  his  pocket.  As  they  passed  a  dark  alley, 
he  stepped  aside  to  load  the  weapon.  ' 

"Have  you  anything  of  this  sort  with  you?"  he 
said,  showing  it  to  Roger. 

"Good  Lord,  no,"  said  the  bookseller.  "What 
do  you  think  I  am,  a  moving-picture  hero?'5 

Down  Gissing  Street  the  younger  man  set  so 
rapid  a  pace  that  his  companion  had  to  trot  to 
keep  abreast.  The  placid  vista  of  the  little  street 
was  reassuring.  Under  the  glowing  effusion  of 
the  shop  windows  the  pavement  was  a  path  of 
checkered  brightness.  In  Weintraub's  pharmacy 
they  could  see  the  pasty-faced  assistant  in  his 
stained  white  coat  serving  a  beaker  of  hot  choco- 
late. In  the  stationer's  shop  people  were  looking 
over  trays  of  Christmas  cards.  In  the  Milwaukee 
Lunch  Aubrey  saw  (and  envied)  a  sturdy  citizen 
peacefully  dipping  a  doughnut  into  a  cup  of  coffee. 

"This  all  seems  very  unreal,"  said  Roger. 

As  they  neared  the  bookshop,  Aubrey's  heart 
gave  a  jerk  of  apprehension.  The  blinds  in  the 
front  windows  had  been  drawn  down.  A  dull 
shining  came  through  them,  showing  that  the 
lights  were  turned  on  inside.  But  why  should  the 


258         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

shades  be  lowered  with  closing  time  three  hours 
away? 

They  reached  the  front  door,  and  Aubrey  was 
about  to  seize  the  handle  when  Roger  halted  him. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  said.  "Let's  go  in 
quietly.  There  may  be  something  queer  going 


on." 


Aubrey  turned  the  knob  gently.  The  door  was 
locked. 

Roger  pulled  out  his  latchkey  and  cautiously 
released  the  bolt.  Then  he  opened  the  door 
slightly — about  an  inch* 

"You're  taller  than  I  am,"  he  whispered. 
"  Reach  up  and  muffle  the  bell  above  the  door  while 
I  open  it." 

Aubrey  thrust  three  fingers  through  the  aper- 
ture and  blocked  the  trigger  of  the  gong.  Then 
Roger  pushed  the  door  wide,  and  they  tiptoed  in. 

The  shop  was  empty,  and  apparently  normal. 
They  stood  for  an  instant  with  pounding  pulses. 

From  the  back  of  the  house  came  a  clear  voice, 
a  little  tremulous: 

"You  can  do  what  you  like,  I  shan't  tell  you 
where  it  is.  Mr.  Mifflin  said " 

There  followed  the  bang  of  a  falling  chair,  and  a 
sound  of  rapid  movement. 

Aubrey  was  down  the  aisle  in  a  flash,  followed 
by  Roger,  who  had  delayed  just  long  enough  to 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         259 

close  the  door.  He  tiptoed  up  the  steps  at  the 
back  of  the  shop  and  looked  into  the  dining  room. 
At  the  instant  his  eyes  took  in  the  scene  it  seemed 
as  though  the  whole  room  was  in  motion. 

The  cloth  was  spread  for  supper  and  shone 
white  under  the  drop  lamp.  In  the  far  corner 
of  the  room  Titania  was  struggling  in  the  grasp 
of  a  bearded  man  whom  Aubrey  instantly  recog- 
nized as  the  chef.  On  the  near  side  of  the  table, 
holding  a  revolver  levelled  at  the  girl,  stood  Wein- 
traub.  His  back  was  toward  the  door.  Aubrey 
could  see  the  druggist's  sullen  jaw  crease  and 
shake  with  anger,, 

Two  strides  took  him  into  the  room.  He  jam- 
med the  muzzle  of  his  pistol  against  the  oily  cheek. 
"Drop  it!"  he  said  hoarsely.  "You  Hun!" 
With  his  left  hand  he  seized  the  man's  shirt  collar 
and  drew  it  tight  against  the  throat.  In  his 
tremor  of  rage  and  excitement  his  arms  felt  curi- 
ously weak,  and  his  first  thought  was  how  im- 
possible it  would  be  to  strangle  that  swinish  neck. 

For  an  instant  there  was  a  breathless  tableau. 
The  bearded  man  still  had  his  hands  on  Titania's 
shoulders.  She,  very  pale  but  with  brilliant  eyes, 
gazed  at  Aubrey  in  unbelieving  amazement.  Wein- 
traub  stood  quite  motionless  with  both  hands  on 
the  dining  table,  as  though  thinking.  He  felt  the 
cold  bruise  of  metal  against  the  hollow  of  his  cheek. 


260         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

Slowly  he  opened  his  right  hand  and  his  revolver 
fell  on  the  linen  cloth.  Then  Roger  burst  into  the 
room. 

Titania  wrenched  herself  away  from  the  chef. 

"I  wouldn't  give  them  the  suitcase!"  she  cried. 

Aubrey  kept  his  pistol  pinned  against  Wein- 
traub's  face.  With  his  left  hand  he  picked  up  the 
druggist's  revolver.  Roger  was  about  to  seize 
the  chef,  who  was  standing  uncertainly  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table. 

"Here,"  said  Aubrey,  "take  this  gun.  Cover 
this  fellow  and  leave  that  one  to  me.  I've  got  a 
score  to  settle  with  him." 

The  chef  made  a  movement  as  though  to  jump 
through  the  window  behind  him,  but  Aubrey  flung 
himself  upon  him.  He  hit  the  man  square  on  the 
nose  and  felt  a  delicious  throb  of  satisfaction  as 
the  rubbery  flesh  flattened  beneath  his  knuckles. 
He  seized  the  man's  hairy  throat  and  sank  his 
fingers  into  it.  The  other  tried  to  snatch  the  bread 
knife  on  the  table,  but  was  too  late.  He  fell  to  the 
floor,  and  Aubrey  throttled  him  savagely. 

"You  blasted  Hun,"  he  grunted.  "Go  wrest- 
ling with  girls,  will  you?" 

Titania  ran  from  the  room,  through  the  pantryl 

Roger  was  holding  Weintraub's  revolver  in 
front  of  the  German's  face. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "what  does  this  mean?" 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        261 

"It's  all  a  mistake,"  said  the  druggist  suavely, 
though  his  eyes  slid  uneasily  to  and  fro.  "I  just 
came  in  to  get  some  books  I  left  here  earlier  in  the 
afternoon." 

"With  a  revolver,  eh?"  said  Roger.  "Speak  up, 
Hindenburg,  what's  the  big  idea?" 

"It's  not  my  revolver,"  said  Weintraub.  "It's 
Metzger's." 

"Where's  this  suitcase  of  yours?"  said  Roger. 
"We're  going  to  have  a  look  at  it." 

"It's  all  a  stupid  mistake,"  said  Weintraub. 
"I  left  a  suitcase  of  old  books  here  for  Metzger, 
because  I  expected  to  go  out  of  town  this  after- 
noon o  He  called  for  it,  and  your  young  woman 
wouldn't  give  it  to  him.  He  came  to  me,  and  I 
came  down  here  to  tell  her  it  was  all  right." 

"Is  that  Metzger?"  said  Roger,  pointing  to  the 
bearded  man  who  was  trying  to  break  Aubrey's 
grip.  "Gilbert,  don't  choke  that  man,  we  want 
him  to  do  some  explaining." 

Aubrey  got  up,  picked  his  revolver  from  the  floor 
where  he  had  dropped  it,  and  prodded  the  chef  to 
his  feet. 

"Well,  you  swine,"  he  said,  "how  did  you  enjoy 
falling  downstairs  the  other  evening?  As  for  you, 
Herr  Weintraub,  I'd  like  to  know  what  kind  of 
prescriptions  you  make  up  in  that  cellar  of 
yours." 


262         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

Weintraub 's  face  shone  damply  in  the  lamplight. 
Perspiration  was  thick  on  his  forehead. 

"My  dear  Mifflin,"  he  said,  "this  is  awfully 
stupid.  In  my  eagerness,  I'm  afraid " 

Titania  ran  back  into  the  room,  followed  by 
Helen,  whose  face  was  crimson. 

"Thank  God  you're  back,  Roger,"  she  said. 
"These  brutes  tied  me  up  in  the  kitchen  and 
gagged  me  with  a  roller-towel.  They  threatened 
to  shoot  Titania  if  she  wouldn't  give  them  the 
suitcase." 

Weintraub  began  to  say  something,  but  Roger 
thrust  the  revolver  between  his  eyes. 

"  Hold  your  tongue ! "  he  said.  "  We're  going  to 
have  a  look  at  those  books  of  yours." 

"I'll  get  the  suitcase,"  said  Titania.  "I  hid  it. 
When  Mr.  Weintraub  came  in  and  asked  for  it, 
at  first  I  was  going  to  give  it  to  him,  but  he  looked 
so  queer  I  thought  something  must  be  wrong." 

"Don't  you  get  it,"  said  Aubrey,  and  their  eyes 
met  for  the  first  time.  "Show  me  where  it  is,  and 
we'll  let  friend  Hun  bring  it." 

Titania  flushed  a  little.  "It's  in  my  bedroom 
cupboard,"  she  said. 

She  led  the  way  upstairs,  Metzger  following, 
and  Aubrey  behind  Metzger  with  his  pistol  ready. 
Outside  the  bedroom  door  Aubrey  halted.  "  Show 
him  the  suitcase  and  let  him  pick  it  up,"  he  said. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        263 

"If  he  makes  a  wrong  movement,  call  me,  and  I'll 
shoot  him." 

Titania  pointed  out  the  suitcase,  which  she  had 
stowed  at  the  back  of  her  cupboard  behind  some 
clothes.  The  chef  showed  no  insubordination, 
and  the  three  returned  downstairs. 

"Very  well,"  said  Roger.  "We'll  go  down  in 
the  shop  where  we  can  see  better.  Perhaps  he's 
got  a  first  folio  Shakespeare  in  here.  Helen,  you 
go  to  the  phone  and  ring  up  the  McFee  Street 
police  station.  Ask  them  to  send  a  couple  of  men 
round  here  at  once." 

"My  dear  Mifflin,"  said  Weintraub,  "this  is 
very  absurd.  Only  a  few  old  books  that  I  had 
collected  from  time  to  time." 

"I  don't  call  it  absurd  when  a  man  comes  into 
my  house  and  ties  my  wife  up  with  clothesline  and 
threatens  to  shoot  a  young  girl,"  said  Roger. 
"We'll  see  what  the  police  have  to  say  about  this, 
Weintraub.  Don't  make  any  mistake:  if  you  try 
to  bolt  I'll  blow  your  brains  out." 

Aubrey  led  the  way  down  into  the  shop  while 
Metzger  carried  the  suitcase.  Roger  and  Wein- 
traub followed,  and  Titania  brought  up  the  rear. 
Under  a  bright  light  in  the  Essay  alcove  Aubrey 
made  the  chef  lay  the  bag  on  the  table. 

"Open  her  up,"  he  said  curtly. 

"It's  nothing  but  some  old  books,"  said  Metzger. 


264         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"If  they're  old  enough  they  may  be  valuable, " 
said  Roger.  "I'm  interested  in  old  books.  Look 
sharp!" 

Metzger  drew  a  key  from  his  pocket  and  un- 
locked the  bag.  Aubrey  held  the  pistol  at  his 
head  as  he  threw  back  the  lid. 

The  suitcase  was  full  of  second-hand  books 
closely  packed  together.  Roger,  with  great  pres- 
ence of  mind,  was  keeping  his  eyes  on  Weintraub. 

"Tell  me  what's  in  it,"  he  said. 

"Why,  it's  only  a  lot  of  books,  after  all,"  cried 
Titania. 

"You  see,"  said  Weintraub  surlily,  "There's 
no  mystery  about  it.  I'm  sorry  I  was  so " 

"Oh,  look!"  said  Titania;  "There's  the  Crom- 
wellbookl" 

For  an  instant  Roger  forgot  himself.  He 
looked  instinctively  at  the  suitcase,  and  in  that 
moment  the  druggist  broke  away,  ran  down  the 
aisle,  and  flew  out  of  the  door.  Roger  dashed 
after  him,  but  was  too  late.  Aubrey  was  holding 
Metzger  by  the  collar  with  the-  pistol  at  his 
head. 

"Good  God,"  he  said,  "why  didn't  you  shoot?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Roger  in  confusion.  "I 
was  afraid  of  hitting  someone.  Never  mind,  we 
can  fix  him  later." 

"The  police  will  be  here  in  a  minute,"  said 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        265 

Helen,  calling  from  the  telephone.  "I'm  going  to 
let  Bock  in.  He's  in  the  back  yard." 

"I  think  they're  both  crazy,"  said  Titania. 
"  Let's  put  the  Cromwell  back  on  the  shelf  and  let 
this  creature  go."  She  put  out  her  hand  for  the 
book. 

"Stop!"  cried  Aubrey,  and  seized  her  arm. 
"Don't  touch  that  book!" 

Titania  shrank  back,  frightened  by  his  voice. 
Had  everyone  gone  insane? 

"Here,  Mr.  Metzger,"  said  Aubrey,  "you  put 
that  book  back  on  the  shelf  where  it  belongs. 
Don't  try  to  get  away,  because  I've  got  this  re- 
volver pointed  at  you." 

He  and  Roger  were  both  startled  by  the 
chef's  face.  Above  the  unkempt  beard  his  eyes 
shone  with  a  half-crazed  lustre,  and  his  hands 
shook. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.    "Show  me  where  it  goes." 

"I'll  show  you,"  said  Titania. 

Aubrey  put  out  his  arm  in  front  of  the  girl. 
"Stay  where  you  are,"  he  said  angrily. 

"Down  in  the  History  alcove,"  said  Roger. 
"The  front  alcove  on  the  other  side  of  the  shop. 
We've  both  got  you  covered." 

Instead  of  taking  the  volume  from  the  suitcase, 
Metzger  picked  up  the  whole  bag,  holding  it  flat. 
He  carried  it  to  the  alcove  they  indicated.  He 


266         TEE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

placed  the  case  carefully  on  the  floor,  and  picked 
the  Cromwell  volume  out  of  it. 

"Where  would  you  want  it  to  go?"  he  said  in 
an  odd  voice.  "  This  is  a  valuable  book." 

"On  the  fifth  shelf,"  said  Roger.  "Over 
there " 

"For  God's  sake  stand  back,"  said  Aubrey. 
"Don't  go  near  him.  There's  something  damn- 
able about  this." 

"  You  poor  fools ! "  cried  Metzger  harshly.  "  To 
hell  with  you  and  your  old  books."  He  drew  his 
hand  back  as  though  to  throw  the  volume  at  them. 

There  was  a  quick  patter  of  feet,  and  Bock, 
growling,  ran  down  the  aisle.  In  the  same  instant, 
Aubrey,  obeying  some  unexplained  impulse,  gave 
Roger  a  violent  push  back  into  the  Fiction  alcove, 
seized  Titania  roughly  in  his  arms,  and  ran  with 
her  toward  the  back  of  the  shop. 

Metzger's  arm  was  raised,  about  to  throw  the 
book,  when  Bock  darted  at  him  and  buried  his 
teeth  in  the  man's  leg.  The  Cromwell  fell  from  his 
hand. 

There  was  a  shattering  explosion,  a  dull  roar, 
and  for  an  instant  Aubrey  thought  the  whole 
bookshop  had  turned  into  a  vast  spinning  top. 
The  floor  rocked  and  sagged,  shelves  of  books  were 
hurled  in  every  direction.  Carrying  Titania,  he 
had  just  reached  the  steps  leading  to  the  domestic 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP       267 

quarters  when  they  were  flung  sideways  into  the 
corner  behind  Roger's  desk.  The  air  was  full  of 
flying  books.  A  row  of  encyclopedias  crashed 
down  upon  his  shoulders,  narrowly  missing  Ti- 
tania's  head.  The  front  windows  were  shivered 
into  flying  streamers  of  broken  glass.  The  table 
near  the  door  was  hurled  into  the  opposite  gallery. 
With  a  splintering  crash  the  corner  of  the  gallery 
above  the  History  alcove  collapsed,  and  hundreds 
of  volumes  cascaded  heavily  on  to  the  floor. 
The  lights  went  out,  and  for  an  instant  all  was 
silence. 

"Are  you  all  right?"  said  Aubrey  hastily.  He 
and  Titania  had  fallen  sprawling  against  the  book- 
seller's desk. 

"I  think  so,"  she  said  faintly.  "Where's  Mr. 
Mifflin?" 

Aubrey  put  out  his  hand  to  help  her,  and 
touched  something  wet  on  the  floor.  "Good 
heavens,"  he  thought.  "She's  dying!"  He  strug- 
gled to  his  feet  in  the  darkness.  "Hullo,  Mr. 
Mifflin,"  he  called,  "where  are  you?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

A  beam  of  light  gushed  out  from  the  passage- 
way behind  the  shop,  and  picking  his  way  over 
fallen  litter  he  found  Mrs.  Mifflin  standing  dazed 
by  the  dining-room  door.  In  the  back  of  the  house 
the  lights  were  still  burning. 


268         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"For  heaven's  sake,  have  you  a  candle?"  he 
said. 

"Where's  Roger?"  she  cried  piteously,  and 
stumbled  into  the  kitchen. 

With  a  candle  Aubrey  found  Titania  sitting 
on  the  floor,  very  faint,  but  unhurt.  What  he  had 
thought  was  blood  proved  to  be  a  pool  of  ink  from 
a  quart  bottle  that  had  stood  over  Roger's  desk. 
He  picked  her  up  like  a  child  and  carried  her 
into  the  kitchen.  "Stay  here  and  don't  stir," 
he  said. 

By  this  tune  a  crowd  was  already  gathering  on 
the  pavement.  Someone  came  in  with  a  lantern. 
Three  policemen  appeared  at  the  door. 

"For  God's  sake,"  cried  Aubrey,  "get  a  light  in 
here  so  we  can  see  what's  happened.  Mifflin's 
buried  in  this  mess  somewhere.  Someone  ring  for 
an  ambulance." 

The  whole  front  of  the  Haunted  Bookshop  was 
a  wreck.  In  the  pale  glimmer  of  the  lantern  it 
was  a  disastrous  sight.  Helen  groped  her  way 
down  the  shattered  aisle. 

"WTiere  was  he?"  she  cried  wildly. 

"Thanks  to  that  set  of  Trollope,"  said  a  voice  in 
the  remains  of  the  Fiction  alcove,  "I  think  I'm 
all  right.  Books  make  good  shock-absorbers. 
Is  any  one  hurt?" 

It  was  Roger,  half  stunned,  but  undamaged. 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        269 

He  crawled  out  from  under  a  case  of  shelves  that 
had  crumpled  down  upon  him. 

"Bring  that  lantern  over  here,"  said  Aubrey, 
pointing  to  a  dark  heap  lying  on  the  floor  under  the 
broken  fragments  of  Roger's  bulletin  board. 

It  was  the  chef.  He  was  dead.  And  clinging  to 
his  leg  was  all  that  was  left  of  Bock. 


CHAPTER  XV 
MR.  CHAPMAN  WAVES  HIS  WAND 

GISSING  Street  will  not  soon  forget  the  ex- 
plosion at  the  Haunted  Bookshop.  When 
it  was  learned  that  the  cellar  of  Wein- 
traub's  pharmacy  contained  just  the  information 
for  which  the  Department  of  Justice  had  been 
looking  for  four  years,  and  that  the  inoffensive 
German-American  druggist  had  been  the  artisan 
of  hundreds  of  incendiary  bombs  that  had  been 
placed  on  American  and  Allied  shipping  and  in 
ammunition  plants — and  that  this  same  Wein- 
traub  had  committed  suicide  when  arrested  on 
Bromfield  Street  in  Boston  the  next  day — Gissing 
Street  hummed  with  excitement.  The  Milwaukee 
Lunch  did  a  roaring  business  among  the  sensation 
seekers  who  came  to  view  the  ruins  of  the  book- 
shop. When  it  became  known  that  fragments  of 
a  cabin  plan  of  the  George  Washington  had  been 
found  in  Metzger's  pocket,  and  the  confession  of 
an  accomplice  on  the  kitchen  staff  of  the  Octagon 
Hotel  showed  that  the  bomb,  disguised  as  a  copy 
of  one  of  Woodrow  Wilson's  favourite  books,  was 

270 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        271 

to  have  been  placed  in  the  Presidential  suite  of  the 
steamship,  indignation  knew  no  bounds.  Mrs. 
J.  F.  Smith  left  Mrs.  Schiller's  lodgings,  declaring 
that  she  would  stay  no  longer  in  a  pro-German 
colony;  and  Aubrey  was  able  at  last  to  get  a  much- 
needed  bath. 

For  the  next  three  days  he  was  too  busy  with 
agents  of  the  Department  of  Justice  to  be  able  to 
carry  on  an  investigation  of  his  own  that  greatly 
occupied  his  mind.  But  late  on  Friday  .after- 
noon he  called  at  the  bookshop  to  talk  things 
over. 

The  debris  had  all  been  neatly  cleared  away, 
and  the  shattered  front  of  the  building  boarded  up. 
Inside,  Aubrey  found  Roger  seated  on  the  floor, 
looking  over  piles  of  volumes  that  were  heaped 
pell-mell  around  him.  Through  Mr.  Chapman's 
influence  with  a  well-known  firm  of  builders, 
the  bookseller  had  been  able  to  get  men  to  work  at 
once  in  making  repairs,  but  even  so  it  would  be  at 
least  ten  days,  he  said,  before  he  could  reopen 
for  business.  "I  hate  to  lose  the  value  of  all  this 
advertising,"  he  lamented.  "It  isn't  often  that  a 
second-hand  bookstore  gets  onto  the  front  pages 
of  the  newspapers." 

"I  thought  you  didn't  believe  in  advertising," 
said  Aubrey. 

"The  kind  of  advertising  I  believe  in,"  said 


272         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

Roger,  "is  the  kind  that  doesn't  cost  you  any- 
thing." 

Aubrey  smiled  as  he  looked  round  at  the  dis- 
mantled shop.  "It  seems  to  me  that  this'll  cost 
you  a  tidy  bit  when  the  bill  comes  in." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Roger,  "This  is  just 
what  I  needed.  I  was  getting  into  a  rut.  The 
explosion  has  blown  out  a  whole  lot  of  books  I 
had  forgotten  about  and  didn't  even  know  I  had. 
Look,  here's  an  old  copy  of  How  to  Be  Happy 
Though  Married,  which  I  see  the  publisher  lists 
as  'Fiction.5  Here's  Urn  Burial,  and  The  Love 
Affairs  of  a  Bibliomaniac,  and  Mistletoe's  Book  of 
Deplorable  Facts.  I'm  going  to  have  a  thorough 
house-cleaning.  I'm  thinking  seriously  of  put- 
ting in  a  vacuum  cleaner  and  a  cash  register.  Ti- 
tania  was  quite  right,  the  place  was  too  dirty. 
That  girl  has  given  me  a  lot  of  ideas." 

Aubrey  wanted  to  ask  where  she  was,  but  didn't 
like  to  say  so  point-blank. 

"There's  no  rquestion  about  it,"  said  Roger, 
"  an  explosion  now  and  then  does  one  good.  Since 
the  reporters  got  here  and  dragged  the  whole  yarn 
out  of  us,  I've  had  half  a  dozen  offers  from  pub- 
lishers for  my  book,  a  lyceum  bureau  wants  me  to 
lecture  on  Bookselling  as  a  Form  of  Public  Service, 
I've  had  five  hundred  letters  from  people  asking 
when  the  shop  will  reopen  for  business,  and  the 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        273 

American  Booksellers'  Association  has  invited  me 
to  give  an  address  at  its  convention  next  spring. 
It's  the  first  recognition  I've  ever  had.  If  it 

weren't  for  poor  dear  old  Bock Come,  we've 

buried  him  in  the  back  yard.  I  want  to  show  you 
his  grave." 

Over  a  pathetically  small  mound  near  the  fence 
a  bunch  of  big  yellow  chrysanthemums  were  stand- 
ing in  a  vase. 

"Titania  put  those  there,"  said  Roger.  "She 
says  she's  going  to  plant  a  dogwood  tree  there 
in  the  spring.  We  intend  to  put  up  a  little  stone 
for  him,  and  I'm  trying  to  think  of  an  inscription, 
I  thought  of  De  Mortuis  Nil  Nisi  Bonum,  but 
that's  a  bit  too  flippant." 

The  living  quarters  of  the  house  had  not  been 
damaged  by  the  explosion,  and  Roger  took  Aubrey 
back  to  the  den.  "You've  come  just  at  the  right 
time,"  he  said.  "Mr.  Chapman's  coming  to 
dinner  this  evening,  and  we'll  all  have  a  good  talk. 
There's  a  lot  about  this  business  I  don't  under- 
stand yet." 

Aubrey  was  still  keeping  his  eye  open  for  a  sign 
of  Titania's  presence,  and  Roger  noticed  his  wan- 
dering gaze. 

"This  is  Miss  Chapman's  afternoon  off,"  he 
said.  "She  got  her  first  salary  to-day,  and  was  so 
much  exhilarated  that  she  went  to  New  York  to 


274         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

blow  it  in.  She's  out  with  her  father.  Excuse 
me,  please,  I'm  going  to  help  Helen  get  dinner 
ready." 

Aubrey  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  lit  his  pipe. 
The  burden  of  his  meditation  was  that  it  was  just 
a  week  since  he  had  first  met  Titania,  and  in  all 
that  week  there  had  been  no  waking  moment  when 
he  had  not  thought  of  her.  He  was  wondering 
how  long  it  might  take  for  a  girl  to  fall  in  love? 
A  man — he  knew  now — could  fall  in  love  in  five 
minutes,  but  how  did  it  work  with  girls?  He  was 
also  thinking  what  unique  Daintybits  advertis- 
ing copy  he  could  build  (like  all  ad  men  he  al- 
ways spoke  of  building  an  ad,  never  of  writing 
one)  out  of  this  affair  if  he  could  only  use  the  inside 
stuff. 

He  heard  a  rustle  behind  him,  and  there  she 
was.  She  had  on  a  gray  fur  coat  and  a  lively 
little  hat.  Her  cheeks  were  delicately  tinted  by 
the  winter  air.  Aubrey  rose. 

"Why,  Mr.  Gilbert!"  she  said.  "Where  have 
you  been  keeping  yourself  when  I  wanted  to  see 
you  so  badly?  I  haven't  seen  you,  not  to  talk  to, 
since  last  Sunday." 

He  found  it  impossible  to  say  anything  intel- 
ligible. She  threw  off  her  coat,  and  went  on, 
with  a  wistful  gravity  that  became  her  even  more 
than  smiles: 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        275 

"Mr.  Mifflin  has  told  me  some  more  about 
what  you  did  last  week — I  mean,  how  you  took  a 
room  across  the  street  and  spied  upon  that  hateful 
man  and  saw  through  the  whole  thing  when  we 
were  too  blind  to  know  what  was  going  on.  And 
I  want  to  apologize  for  the  silly  things  I  said  that 
Sunday  morning.  Will  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

Aubrey  had  never  felt  his  self-salesmanship 
ability  at  such  a  low  ebb.  To  his  unspeakable 
horror,  he  felt  his  eyes  betray  him.  They  grew 
moist. 

"Please  don't  talk  like  that,"  he  said.  "I  had 
no  right  to  do  what  I  did,  anyway.  And  I  was 
wrong  in  what  I  said  about  Mr.  Mifflin.  I  don't 
wonder  you  were  angry." 

"Now  surely  you're  not  going  to  deprive  me  of 
the  pleasure  of  thanking  you,"  she  said.  "You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  you  saved  my  life— all 
our  lives,  that  night.  I  guess  you'd  have  saved 
poor  Bock's,  too,  if  you  could."  Her  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"If  anybody  deserves  credit,  it's  you,"  he  said. 
"Why,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  they'd  have  been 
away  with  that  suitcase  and  probably  Metzger 
would  have  got  his  bomb  on  board  the  ship  and 
blown  up  the  President " 

"I'm  not  arguing  with  you,"  she  said.  "I'm 
just  thanking  you." 


276         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

It  was  a  happy  little  party  that  sat  down  in 
Roger's  dining  room  that  evening.  Helen  had 
prepared  Eggs  Samuel  Butler  in  Aubrey's  honour, 
and  Mr.  Chapman  had  brought  two  bottles  of 
champagne  to  pledge  the  future  success  of  the 
bookshop.  Aubrey  was  called  upon  to  announce 
the  result  of  his  conferences  with  the  secret 
service  men  who  had  been  looking  up  Weintraub's 
record. 

"It  all  seems  so  simple  now,"  he  said,  "that  I 
wonder  we  didn't  see  through  it  at  once.  You  see, 
we  all  made  the  mistake  of  assuming  that  German 
plotting  would  stop  automatically  when  the 
armistice  was  signed.  It  seems  that  this  man 
Weintraub  was  one  of  the  most  dangerous  spies 
Germany  had  in  this  country.  Thirty  or  forty 
fires  and  explosions  on  our  ships  at  sea  are  said  to 
have  been  due  to  his  work:  As  he  had  lived  here 
so  long  and  taken  out  citizen's  papers,  no  one 
suspected  him.  But  after  his  death,  his  wife, 
whom  he  had  treated  very  brutally,  gave  way  and 
told  a  great  deal  about  his  activities.  According 
to  Tier,  as  soon  as  it  was  announced  that  the 
President  would  go  to  the  Peace  Conference, 
Weintraub  made  up  his  mind  to  get  a  bomb  into 
the  President's  cabin  on  board  the  George  Wash- 
ington. Mrs.  Weintraub  tried  to  dissuade  him 
from  it,  as  she  was  in  secret  opposed  to  these  mur- 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        277 

derous  plots  of  his,  but  he  threatened  to  kill  her 
if  she  thwarted  him.  She  lived  in  terror  of  her 
life.  I  can  believe  it,  for  I  remember  her  face 
when  her  husband  looked  at  her. 

"  Of  course  to  make  the  bomb  was  simple  enough 
for  Weintraub.  He  had  an  infernally  complete 
laboratory  in  the  cellar  of  his  house,  where  he  had 
made  hundreds.  The  problem  was,  how  to  make 
a  bomb  that  would  not  look  suspicious,  and  how 
to  get  it  into  the  President's  private  cabin.  He 
hit  on  the  idea  of  binding  it  into  the  cover  of  a 
book.  How  he  came  to  choose  that  particular 
volume,  I  don't  know." 

"I  think  probably  I  gave  him  the  idea  quite 
innocently,"  said  Roger.  "He  used  to  come  in 
here  a  good  deal  and  one  day  he  asked  me  whether 
Mr.  Wilson  was  a  great  reader.  I  said  that  I 
believed  he  was,  and  then  mentioned  the  Crom- 
well, which  I  had  heard  was  one  of  Wilson's 
favourite  books.  Weintraub  was  much  interested 
and  said  he  must  read  the  book  some  day.  I  re- 
member now  that  he  stood  in  that  alcove  for  some 
time,  looking  over  it." 

"Well,"  said  Aubrey,  "it  must  have  seemed  to 
him  that  luck  was  playing*  into  his  hands.  This 
man  Metzger,  who  had  been  an  assistant  chef  at 
the  Octagon  for  years,  was  slated  to  go  on  board 
the  George  Washington  with  the  party  of  cooks 


278         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

from  that  hotel  who  were  to  prepare  the  President's 
meals.  Weintraub  was  informed  of  all  this  from 
someone  higher  up  in  the  German  spy  organiza- 
tion. Metzger,  who  was  known  as  Messier  at  the 
hotel,  was  a  very  clever  chef,  and  had  fake  pass- 
ports as  a  Swiss  citizen.  He  was  another  tool  of 
the  organization.  By  the  original  scheme  there 
would  have  been  no  direct  communication  between 
Weintraub  and  Metzger,  but  the  go-between  was 
spotted  by  the  Department  of  Justice  on  another 
count,  and  is  now  behind  bars  at  Atlanta. 

"It  seems  that  Weintraub  had  conceived  the 
idea  that  the  least  suspicious  way  of  passing  his 
messages  to  Metzger  would  be  to  slip  them  into  a 
copy  of  some  book — a  book  little  likely  to  be 
purchased — in  a  second-hand  bookshop.  Metzger 
had  been  informed  what  the  book  was,  but — 
perhaps  owing  to  the  unexpected  removal  of  the 
go-between — did  not  know  in  which  shop  he  was  to 
find  it.  That  explains  why  so  many  booksellers 
had  inquiries  from  him  recently  for  a  copy  of  the 
Cromwell  volume. 

"Weintraub,  of  course,  was  not  at  all  anxious 
to  have  any  direct  dealings  with  Metzger,  as  the 
druggist  had  a  high  regard  for  his  own  skin.  When 
the  chef  was  finally  informed  where  the  bookshop 
was  hi  which  he  was  to  see  the  book,  he  hurried 
over  here.  Weintraub  had  picked  out  this  shop 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        279 

not  only  because  it  was  as  unlikely  as  any  place  on 
earth  to  be  suspected  as  a  channel  of  spy  codes, 
but  also  because  he  had  your  confidence  and  could 
drop  in  frequently  without  arousing  surprise.  The 
first  time  Metzger  came  here  happened  to  be  the 
night  I  dined  with  you,  as  you  remember." 

Roger  nodded.  "He  asked  for  the  book,  and  to 
my  surprise,  it  wasn't  there." 

"No:  for  the  excellent  reason  that  Weintraub 
had  taken  it  some  days  before,  to  measure  it  so  he 
could  build  his  infernal  machine  to  fit,  and  also  to 
have  it  rebound.  He  needed  the  original  binding 
as  a  case  for  his  bomb.  The  following  night,  as 
you  told  me,  it  came  back.  He  brought  it  him- 
self, having  provided  himself  with  a  key  to  your 
front  door." 

"It  was  gone  again  on  Thursday  night,  when 
the  Corn  Cob  Club  met  here,"  said  Mr.  Chapman. 

"Yes,  that  time  Metzger  had  taken  it,"  said 
Aubrey.  "He  misunderstood  his  instructions, 
and  thought  he  was  to  steal  the  book.  You  see, 
owing  to  the  absence  of  their  third  man,  they  were 
working  at  cross  purposes.  Metzger,  I  think,  was 
only  intended  to  get  his  information  out  of  the 
book,  and  leave  it  where  it  was.  At  any  rate,  he 
was  puzzled,  and  inserted  that  ad  in  the  Times 
the  next  morning — that  LOST  ad,  you  remember. 
By  that,  I  imagine,  he  intended  to  convey  the  idea 


280         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

that  he  had  located  the  bookshop,  but  didn't 
know  what  to  do  next.  And  the  date  he  men- 
tioned in  the  ad,  midnight  on  Tuesday,  December 
third,  was  to  inform  Weintraub  (of  whose  identity 
he  was  still  ignorant)  when  Metzger  was  to  go  on 
board  the  ship.  Weintraub  had  been  instructed 
by  their  spy  organization  to  watch  the  LOST  and 
FOUND  ads." 

" Think  of  it!"  cried  Titania. 

"Well,"  continued  Aubrey,  "all  this  may  not 
be  100  per  cent,  accurate,  but  after  putting  things 
together  this  is  how  it  dopes  out.  Weintraub, 
who  was  as  canny  as  they  make  them,  saw  he'd 
have  to  get  into  direct  touch  with  Metzger.  He 
sent  him  word,  on  the  Friday,  to  come  over  to 
see  him  and  bring  the  book.  Metzger,  meanwhile, 
had  had  a  bad  fright  when  I  spoke  to  him  in  the 
hotel  elevator.  He  returned  the  book  to  the  shop 
that  night,  as  Mrs.  Mifflin  remembers.  Then, 
when  I  stopped  in  at  the  drug  store  on  my  way 
home,  he  must  have  been  with  Weintraub.  I 
found  the  Cromwell  cover  in  the  drug-store  book- 
case— why  Weintraub  was  careless  enough  to 
leave  it  there  I  can't  guess — and  they  spotted  me 
right  away  as  having  some  kind  of  hunch.  So 
they  followed  me  over  the  Bridge  and  tried  to 
get  rid  of  me.  It  was  because  I  got  that  cover 
on  Friday  night  that  Weintraub  broke  into  the 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        281 

shop  again  early  Sunday  morning.  He  had  to 
have  the  cover  of  the  book  to  bind  his  bomb  in." 

Aubrey  was  agreeably  conscious  of  the  close 
attention  of  his  audience.  He  caught  Titania's 
gaze,  and  flushed  a  little  „ 

"That's  pretty  nearly  all  there  is  to  it,"  he  said. 
"I  knew  that  if  those  guys  were  so  keen  to  put 
me  out  of  the  way  there  must  be  something  rather 
rotten  on  foot.  I  came  over  to  Brooklyn  the  next 
afternoon,  Saturday,  and  took  a  room  across  the 
street." 

"And  we  went  to  the  movies,"  chirped  Titania. 

"The  rest  of  it  I  think  you  all  know — except 
Metzger's  visit  to  my  lodgings  that  night."  He 
described  the  incident.  "  You  see  they  were  trail- 
ing me  pretty  close.  If  I  hadn't  happened  to 
notice  the  cigar  at  my  window  I  guess  he'd  have 
had  me  on  toast.  Of  course  you  know  how  wrongly 
I  doped  it  out.  I  thought  Mr.  Mifflin  was  run- 
ning with  them,  and  I  owe  him  my  apology  for 
that.  He's  laid  me  out  once  on  that  score,  over  in 
Philadelphia." 

Humorously,  Aubrey  narrated  how  he  had 
sleuthed  the  bookseller  to  Ludlow  Street,  and  had 
been  worsted  in  battle. 

"I  think  they  counted  on  disposing  of  me  sooner 
or  later,"  said  Aubrey.  "They  framed  up  that 
telephone  call  to  get  Mr.  Mifflin  out  of  town.  The 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

point  in  having  Metzger  come  to  the  bookshop  to 
get  the  suitcase  was  to  clear  Weintraub's  skirts 
if  possible.  Apparently  it  was  just  a  bag  of  old 
books.  The  bombed  book,  I  guess,  was  perfectly 
harmless  until  any  one  tried  to  open  it." 

"You  both  got  back  just  in  the  nick  of  time," 
said  Titania  admiringly.  "  You  see  I  was  all  alone 
most  of  the  afternoon.  Weintraub  left  the  suit- 
case about  two  o'clock.  Metzger  came  for  it 
about  six.  I  refused  to  let  him  have  it.  He  was 
very  persistent,  and  I  had  to  threaten  to  set  Bock 
at  him.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  hold  the  dear  old 
dog  in,  he  was  so  keen  to  go  for  Metzger.  The 
chef  went  away,  and  I  suppose  he  went  up  to  see 
Weintraub  about  it.  I  hid  the  suitcase  in  my 
room.  Mr.  Mifflin  had  forbidden  me  to  touch  it, 
but  I  thought  that  the  safest  thing  to  do.  Then 
Mrs.  Mifflin  came  in.  We  let  Bock  into  the 
yard  for  a  run,  and  were  getting  supper.  I  heard 
the  bell  ring,  and  went  into  the  shop.  There  were 
the  two  Germans,  pulling  down  the  shades.  I 
asked  what  they  meant  by  it,  and  they  grabbed 
me  and  told  me  to  shut  up.  Then  Metzger  pointed 
a  pistol  at  me  while  the  other  one  tied  up  Mrs. 
Mifflin." 

"The  damned  scoundrels!"  cried  Aubrey. 
"They  got  what  was  coming  to  them." 

"Well,  my  friends,"  said  Mr.  Chapman,  "Let's 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        283 

thank  heaven  that  it  ended  no  worse.  Mr.  Gil- 
bert, I  haven't  told  you  yet  how  I  feel  about  the 
whole  affair.  That'll  come  later.  I'd  like  to 
propose  the  health  of  Mr.  Aubrey  Gilbert,  who  is 
certainly  the  hero  of  this  film! " 

They  drank  the  toast  with  cheers,  and  Aubrey 
blushed  becomingly. 

"Oh,  I  forgot  something!"  cried  Titania. 
"When  I  went  shopping  this  afternoon  I  stopped 
in  at  Brentano's,  and  was  lucky  enough  to  find 
just  what  I  wanted.  It's  for  Mr.  Gilbert,  as  a 
souvenir  of  the  Haunted  Bookshop." 

She  ran  to  the  sideboard  and  brought  back  a 
parcel. 

Aubrey  opened  it  with  delighted  agitation.  It 
was  a  copy  of  Carlyle's  Cromwell.  He  tried  to 
stammer  his  thanks,  but  what  he  saw — or  thought 
he  saw — in  Titania's  sparkling  face — unmanned 
him. 

"The  same  edition!"  said  Roger.  "Now  let's 
see  what  those  mystic  page  numbers  are!  Gilbert, 
have  you  got  your  memorandum?" 

Aubrey  took  out  his  notebook.  "Here  we  are," 
he  said.  "This  is  what  Weintraub  wrote  in  the 
back  of  the  cover." 

153  (3)  1,  2, 

Roger  glanced  at  the  notation. 

"That  ought  to  be  easy,"  he  said.     "You  see 


284         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

in  this  edition  three  volumes  are  bound  in  one. 
Let's  look  at  page  153  in  the  third  volume,  the 
first  and  second  lines." 

Aubrey  turned  to  the  place.  He  read,  and 
smiled. 

"Right  you  are,"  he  said. 

"Read  it!"  they  all  cried. 

"  To  seduce  the  Protector9 s  guard,  to  How  up  the 
Protector  in  his  bedroom,  and  do  other  little  fiddling 
things." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that's  where  he  got  his 
idea,"  said  Roger.  "What  have  I  been  saying 
right  along — that  books  aren't  merely  dead 
things!" 

"Good  gracious,"  said  Titania.  "You  told  me 
that  books  are  explosives.  You  were  right, 
weren't  you!  But  it's  lucky  Mr.  Gilbert  didn't 
hear  you  say  it  or  he'd  certainly  have  suspected 

you!" 

"The  joke  is  on  me,"  said  Roger. 

"Well,  Fve  got  a  toast  to  propose,"  said  Titania. 
"Here's  to  the  memory  of  Bock,  the  dearest, 
bravest  dog  I  ever  met!" 

They  drank  it  with  due  gravity. 

"Well,  good  people,"  said  Mr.  Chapman, 
"there's  nothing  we  can  do  for  Bock  now.  But 
we  can  do  something  for  the  rest  of  us.  I've  been 
talking  with  Titania,  Mr.  Mifflin.  I'm  bound 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        285 

to  say  that  after  this  disaster  my  first  thought  was 
to  get  her  out  of  the  book  business  as  fast  as  I 
could.  I  thought  it  was  a  little  too  exciting  for 
her.  You  know  I  sent  her  over  here  to  have  a 
quiet  time  and  calm  down  a  bit.  But  she  wouldn't 
hear  of  leaving.  And  if  I'm  going  to  have  a  family 
interest  in  the  book  business  I  want  to  do  some- 
thing to  justify  it.  I  know  your  idea  about  travel- 
ling book-wagons,  and  taking  literature  into  the 
countryside.  Now  if  you  and  Mrs.  Mifflin  can 
find  the  proper  people  to  run  them,  I'll  finance  a 
fleet  of  ten  of  those  Parnassuses  you're  always 
talking  about,  and  have  them  built  in  time  to  go 
on  the  road  next  spring.  How  about  it?  " 

Roger  and  Helen  looked  at  each  other,  and  at 
Mr.  Chapman.  In  a  flash  Roger  saw  one  of  his 
dearest  dreams  coming  true.  Titania,  to  whom 
this  was  a  surprise,  leaped  from  her  chair  and  ran 
to  kiss  her  father,  crying,  "Oh,  Daddy,  you  are  a 
darling!" 

Roger  rose  solemnly  and  gave  Mr.  Chapman 
his  hand. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  said,  "Miss  Titania  has  found 
the  right  word.  You  are  an  honour  to  human 
nature,  sir,  and  I  hope  you'll  never  live  to  regret 
it.  This  is  the  happiest  moment  of  my  life." 

"Then  that's  settled,"  said  Mr.  Chapman. 
"We'll  go  over  the  details  later.  Now  there's 


286         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

another  thing  on  my  mind.  Perhaps  I  shouldn't 
bring  up  business  matters  here,  but  this  is  a  kind 
of  family  party — Mr.  Gilbert,  it's  my  duty  to 
inform  you  that  I  intend  to  take  my  advertising 
out  of  the  hands  of  the  Grey-Matter  Agency." 

Aubrey's  heart  sank.  He  had  feared  a  catas- 
trophe of  this  kind  from  the  first.'  Naturally  a 
hard-headed  business  man  would  not  care  to  en- 
trust such  vast  interests  to  a  firm  whose  young  men 
went  careering  about  like  secret  service  agents, 
hunting  for  spies,  eavesdropping  in  alleys, 
and  accusing  people  of  pro-germanism.  Business, 
Aubrey  said  to  himself,  is  built  upon  Confidence, 
and  what  confidence  could  Mr.  Chapman  have  in 
such  vagabond  and  romantic  doings?  Still,  he 
felt  that  he  had  done  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,"  he  said.  "We  have  tried  to 
give  you  service.  I  assure  you  that  I've  spent 
by  far  the  larger  part  of  my  time  at  the  office  in 
working  up  plans  for  your  campaigns." 

He  could  not  bear  to  look  at  Titania,  ashamed 
that  she  should  be  the  witness  of  his  humiliation. 

"That's  exactly  it,"  said  Mr.  Chapman.  "I 
don't  want  just  the  larger  part  of  your  time.  I 
want  all  of  it.  I  want  you  to  accept  the  position 
of  assistant  advertising  manager  of  the  Daintybits 
Corporation." 

They  all  cheered,  and  for  the  third  time  that 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP         287 

evening  Aubrey  felt  more  overwhelmed  than  any 
good  advertising  man  is  accustomed  to  feel.  He 
tried  to  express  his  delight,  and  then  added: 

"  I  think  it's  my  turn  to  propose  a  toast.  I  give 
you  the  health  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mifflin,  and  their 
Haunted  Bookshop,  the  place  where  I  first — I 
first " 

His  courage  failed  him,  and  he  concluded,  "First 
learned  the  meaning  of  literature." 

"Suppose  we  adjourn  to  the  den,"  said  Helen. 
"We  have  so  many  delightful  things  to  talk  over, 
and  I  know  Roger  wants  to  tell  you  all  about  the 
improvements  he  is  planning  for  the  shop." 

Aubrey  lingered  to  be  the  last,  and  it  is  to 
be  conjectured  that  Titania  did  not  drop  her 
handkerchief  merely  by  accident.  The  others 
had  already  crossed  the  hall  into  the  sitting 
room. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  Aubrey  could  feel  himself 
drowned  in  her  steady,  honest  gaze.  He  was 
tortured  by  the  bliss  of  being  so  near  her,  and 
alone.  The  rest  of  the  world  seemed  to  shred 
away  and  leave  them  standing  in  that  little'island 
of  light  where  the  tablecloth  gleamed  under  the 
lamp. 

In  his  hand  he  clutched  the  precious  book.  Out 
of  all  the  thousand  things  he  thought,  there  was 
only  one  he  dared  to  say. 


288         THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

"Will  you  write  my  name  in  it?" 

"I'd  love  to,"  she  said,  a  little  shakily,  for  she, 
too,  was  strangely  alarmed  at  certain  throbbings. 

He  gave  her  his  pen,  and  she  sat  down  at  the 
table.  She  wrote  quickly 

For  Aubrey  Gilbert 
From  Titania  Chapman 
With  much  gr 

She  paused. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  quickly.  "  Do  I  have  to  finish  it 
now?" 

She  looked  up  at  him,  with  the  lamplight  shining 
on  her  vivid  face.  Aubrey  felt  oddly  stupefied, 
and  was  thinking  only  of  the  little  golden  sparkle 
of  her  eyelashes.  This  time  her  eyes  were  the  first 
to  turn  away. 

"You  see,"  she  said  with  a  funny  little  quaver, 
"  I  might  want  to  change  the  wording." 

And  she  ran  from  the  room. 

As  she  entered  the  den,  her  father  was  speak- 
ing. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "I'm  rather  glad  she 
wants  to  stay  in  the  book  business." 

Roger  looked  up  at  her. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  believe  it  agrees  with  her! 
You  know,  the  beauty  of  living  in  a  place  like 
this  is  that  you  get  so  absorbed  in  the  books  you 
don't  have  any  temptation  to  worry  about  any- 


THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP        289 

thing  else.     The  people  in  books  become  more 
real  to  you  than  any  one  in  actual  life." 

Titania,  sitting  on  the  arm  of  Mrs.  Mifflin's 
chair,  took  Helen's  hand,  unobserved  by  the 
others.  They  smiled  at  each  other  slyly. 


THE  END 


THE   COUNTRY  LIFE   PRESS 
GARDEN   CITY.   N.   Y, 


P  S3  S3  5 


fit 


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